


From Brooklyn With Love

by squadrickchestopher



Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: ACME Assassination Attempts, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assassination Attempt(s), Blow Jobs, Bottom Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, First Time, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, POV Alternating, Pierced Clint Barton, Praise Kink, Table Sex, Top Bucky Barnes, Voyeurism, defiling tables, gay disaster bucky barnes and the things he's not into, like so much denial, no one has the braincell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25717069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: Bucky Barnes is on a well-deserved vacation when he's offered an assassination contract on Clint Barton—a good-looking archery teacher with a penchant for dogs and coffee. He's hesitant at first, but that's alotof zeros to be working with, and Barton doesn't seem like too a difficult target. Should be easy enough, right?Clint Barton is in the middle of a date when he's offered an assassination contact on Bucky Barnes—a stunningly attractive museum curator who likes to ride motorcycles. He takes it immediately. That's alotof zeros to be working with, and Barnes doesn't seem like too a difficult target. What could possibly go wrong?Thus begins a week of increasingly ridiculous murder shenanigans, featuring Clint as a general human disaster, Bucky slowly realizing that denial's not just a river in Egypt, and both of them deciding that maybe—just maybe—they're into each other a little bit after all.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Filthy Porn Fridays [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860367
Comments: 127
Kudos: 363
Collections: Clintucky Fried Bunnies





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The second installment of Filthy Porn Fridays! This began life as a plot bunny for mere wine cellar smut, and then blossomed into a 31k full-on assassins AU over the course of four days, thanks to the ~~filthy~~ wonderful enablers of the CFCD. I had SO much fun writing this with you guys. I love you all dearly <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS [ART FOR THIS PLEASE GO LOOK AT IT AND GIVE IT THE LOVE IT DESERVES](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869604/chapters/62858107?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_334265833)

Bucky Barnes is on vacation when he gets the message, the soothing crash of waves on the beach suddenly interrupted by The Phone. He scowls and digs it out of his pocket. “I hate you,” he says to it, watching as it registers his voice and unlocks the screen.

He opens the message. It’s the usual—a name, a picture, a location, and an amount. His eyes widen a little at the number of zeroes. He’s done jobs for more, but they usually involve more than one person with that amount. Somebody must really want this guy dead.

Bucky zooms in on the picture. He’s nice looking, this guy. Blond hair, blue eyes, good jawline. Kinda pretty, if he were into that sort of thing. He zooms back out and skips through the rest. Target: Clint Barton. Location: New York City.

Underneath the amount is a little box, outlined in green. ACCEPT. Next to it is a little red box, this one outlined in red. DECLINE.

He looks around at the beach, the waves, the palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze. It’s nice here, really. He’s enjoyed it. He’d done six or seven jobs in a row, and the last one was rough enough that he determined a vacation was necessary afterwards. Once he’d stitched himself up enough to not alarm any civilians by bleeding out on the plane, he’d decided to fuck off to some little island in the Caribbean for a few weeks.

So he could, strictly speaking, skip this one. He’s still tired, and still sporting a couple healing wounds, and it’s not like he _needs_ the money.

And yet.

“That’s a lot of zeroes,” he says, thumb hovering over ACCEPT.

“You almost died on the last job,” he says, thumb hovering over DECLINE.

“New York’s got good bagels,” he says, thumb moving back to ACCEPT.

He hesitates for a moment.

Then he hits the green box, gets up, and goes to pack his stuff.

* * *

Clint Barton is at dinner when he gets the message. He sets down his slice of pizza, smiles apologetically at the guy across from him, and pulls The Phone out. “Sorry,” he says. “Work message. I have to answer when this rings.”

“At nine at night?”

“That’s what happens when you run your own company,” Clint says with a shrug.

“What was it you do again?”

“Extermination.” Clint opens the message. Name: Bucky Barnes. Location: New York City. Amount: _holy fucking shit that’s a lot of zeroes._

He wipes his other hand on his pants and zooms in on the picture. _Hello, handsome_. He takes a moment to admire the jawline, and the eyes, and the way the guy is smirking like he knows a secret. These pictures are always candid, for obvious reasons, but this guy must be one of the lucky bastards who never takes a bad photo.

Across from him, his date— _come on Barton, you’re on a date, maybe quit drooling over your target?_ —clears his throat. “Must be interesting.”

Clint shrugs, scrolling down to the ACCEPT box. “Just the usual,” he says, tapping it. “Got a new job.”

“Congrats,” the guy says. “Happy for you.”

“Thanks.” Clint tucks the phone away and tries to remember his name. Edgar? Edwin? Something like that. “So. What do you do?”

“I’m a reporter,” the guy says. “I work for The Daily Globe.”

“Awesome,” Clint says, turning up the charm. This is probably the last fun night he’ll have in awhile. He might as well enjoy himself. “I want to hear _all_ about it.”

* * *

The dossier comes in an hour after he accepts the job, and Bucky reads it on the plane back to the States. There’s not much there, really. Clint Barton owns an archery course, works part time at a dog shelter, and generally keeps to himself. Bucky reads through the file three times, growing more and more confused.

He doesn’t ask questions. He knows better than that. That’s partly why The Company recommends him—he’s discreet, he’s fast, and he doesn’t ask why. Still, he can’t help but be a little curious. From everything he’s reading, the guy looks clean as a whistle.

His eyes flicker over to the amount again. _Whatever he did, it must have been pretty bad for someone to pay that much money._

Bucky skims through the file one more time. Barton’s not exactly consistent in a schedule, but Bucky sees a couple spots where he could make a hit. He marks them with a little note, then closes the file and flags down a flight attendant.

Gonna be hitting the ground running when he gets back. He might as well enjoy a glass of champagne while he can.

* * *

Clint is in the middle of banging his date— _Eddie_ , he suddenly remembers as the guy moans underneath him—when he gets the file, which means he doesn’t look at it until the early rays of morning drag him from a well-deserved sleep.

It’s sparse, really. Not much there. Some notes on Barnes, and things he likes, potential areas he’ll be in. No schedule. No list of planned activities. Which is fine, Clint’s done more with less. It’s just annoying. Requires more planning.

He looks at the picture again. Goddamn, this guy is _hot_. It’s almost a shame to take him out.

Clint wakes Eddie up a few minutes later and politely kicks him out, making vague promises about calling him. Then he takes Lucky on a walk down to his favorite coffee shop. His favorite barista is working today, and he offers her a blinding smile. “I’ll let you pet my dog if you give me free coffee.”

“Absolutely not,” Natasha says, leaning over the counter to scratch Lucky’s head anyway. “You can pay for your coffee like the rest of the peasants do.”

“Rude,” Clint says, but he forks over some money and gets a large black coffee in return. Then he takes Lucky to one of the outside tables, opens up the file, and starts skimming through it.

Lucky paces for a few moments, then woofs dejectedly and settles at his feet. “I know, buddy,” Clint says, leaning down to scratch at him. “I hate this part too.”

Maybe he’ll get lucky, and Barnes will just walk right past him. Clint could pull him into an alley, push him against the wall, and—

“Whoa,” he says, derailing _that_ train of thought even as he looks at the picture again. _Come on, Barton. Focus. Doesn’t matter how hot he is. Just do your damn job._

Still. A guy can dream, right?

* * *

Bucky doesn’t mean to run directly into his damn target. It just...kind of happens.

One moment he’s walking down the street, looking for that one bagel shop he vaguely remembers, and the next he’s walking into some guy holding a coffee cup. He steps back, narrowly avoiding the slosh of liquid onto his shoes.

“Shit,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“Aw, coffee, no,” the guy says, looking down at his pants. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going, are you—”

He cuts off, staring at Bucky with wide eyes. And Bucky stares too, because that is _Clint Barton_ standing directly in front of him. The guy he’s supposed to be assassinating.

What the fuck?

“Uh,” Bucky says.

Barton gapes at him for a moment, a strange expression on his face. “Uh...” he says back, sounding entirely confused.

A golden retriever suddenly nudges between them, jumping on Bucky and licking at him. The movement snaps Barton into motion, and he tugs the leash. “Down, Lucky!”

The dog drops to the ground, and Barton looks back at Bucky. “Sorry,” he says. “He’s...enthusiastic.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, kneeling down and holding out a hand. “I love dogs. Hey, buddy.”

Lucky noses at him, then licks his hand. Bucky laughs and rubs his fingers through the soft fur, then stands up again. “I’m Bucky,” he says, holding out his hand to Barton. Normally he’d give a fake name, but since Barton will be dead in twenty-four hours, he doesn’t really care.

“Clint,” he says, shaking it.

“Sorry about your coffee.”

“Eh.” Barton waves a hand. “I’ll get more.”

He’s studying Bucky with a curious expression on his face, like he’s both extremely surprised and trying not to laugh at the same time. Bucky doesn’t really get it, but again, it doesn’t really matter. He’s not here to figure out Barton’s facial expressions. He’s here to kill him.

“Let me buy you another,” he says, inspiration striking him. He’s got a couple poison packets on him. It’s not elegant, but it’s efficient. Gets the job done. Barton will be dead of a heart attack a few hours from now, and Bucky can fuck back off to his Caribbean island. He’s thinking of buying a house there, actually.

Maybe this will be his last job and then he can retire.

_Yeah fucking right, Barnes._

Bucky clears his throat. “Clint?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, suddenly animated. “Yeah. Okay. Coffee.” He nods to the side. “I know a good shop around the corner.”

“Awesome,” Bucky says. “Let’s go.”

* * *

What the fuck?

What the _fuck?_

What in the everlasting almighty fuck?

Clint barely keeps himself together as he leads Bucky Fucking Barnes back to the coffee shop he’d vacated less then ten minutes ago. Yeah sure, he’d wished for Barnes to walk in front of him so he could get the job done. He just hadn’t expected it to actually _happen_.

He doesn’t even have any weapons on him, other than a couple poison packets and a syringe of some knockout drug he always carries. Stupid, really, but then again, he hadn’t been expecting to _literally_ run into his target.

Who, by the way, is even more hot in real life than he was in his pictures, and Clint is _really_ having trouble keeping his mind out of the gutter. That jawline should be straight up illegal.

_You’re supposed to be killing him, not fucking him. Get your goddamn head on straight._

He opens the door and smiles weakly at Natasha. “Hey Red,” he says, and she shoots him a glare that he assumes means ‘never try that nickname again or I will murder you.’ “I dropped my coffee.”

“Go figure,” she says. “You’re still not getting a free one.”

“It was my fault,” Barnes says. “I’m buying. Make two, if you don’t mind.” He leans over the counter, drops a charming smile of his own. “I’ve heard good things about your coffee.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, immune as ever to flirting, and starts making two more.

Barnes leans against the counter, all long legs and casual air. “So,” he says. “Know any good bagel places around here?”

Clint blinks. “Uh, yeah,” he says, keeping his peripheral vision on Nat. “One a couple blocks from here.” He hesitates, then says, “I can take you if you want.”

It’ll work better that way, actually. He can get Barnes into an alley somewhere and make sure the poison does its work. It’s not always the most effective, and if he has to strangle the guy or something, it’s probably best not to do it where the whole world can see him.

“Sounds good,” Barnes says, smiling at him.

_That fucking jawline_ , Clint thinks, and smiles back.

* * *

This is too fucking easy, really. Bucky almost doesn’t even want to kill him. There’s no art to it. The poor guy just wants to take him on a nice date for bagels. And he’s objectively good-looking, even better in person than he is in the pictures. Not that Bucky’s into that sort of thing, but still. He appreciates a pretty face when he sees one.

_Focus_ , he tells himself. _No distractions. No pity._

The barista puts two coffees on the counter. “Gentlemen,” she says, and Bucky turns to grab them, poison packet firmly pressed into his fingers. He’ll have to make this quick, these are dangerously blatant—

“Lucky!” Barton suddenly says, as the leash slips from his hand. Lucky barks once and darts away, and on reflex, Bucky reaches out for him, turning away from the counter.

“Got him” he says, snagging the leash.

“Thank you,” Barton says. He shoves something in his pocket—napkin, maybe?—and grabs one of the coffees before reaching out to take the leash. “He’s a sneaky bastard, sometimes. Good catch.”

“No problem.” Bucky picks up his own coffee and taps his finger on the cup, trying to think of another way he can get Barton’s away from him. Maybe if he offers to put something in it, or get him a lid—

“Shit,” Barton says, as Lucky tangles himself around a table. “This goddamn dog, I swear—hold this, will you?” He shoves his cup at Bucky and kneels down.

Bucky blinks in surprise, then immediately sets both cups down and adds the poison packet to Barton’s. _Too fucking easy,_ he thinks, shoving the scraps in his pocket. He needs to remember to wash this jacket later.

Barton takes Lucky’s face between his hands. “Stop being a brat,” he says firmly, then sputters as Lucky licks his mouth. “Ew, gross.”

Bucky snickers. “That’s adorable.”

Barton wipes his mouth off and stands, then takes the cup Bucky offers him. “Thank you,” he says. “So...bagels?”

“Bagels,” Bucky agrees.

He grins. “Awesome. It’s a bit of a walk, but it’s worth it.” He turns to leave, and Bucky suddenly notices how tight his jeans are, and how they curve around his ass _just_ right.

Not that he’s into that sort of thing either, but hey. He appreciates a nice ass when he sees one.

* * *

Clint, for the first time ever, doesn’t want to drink coffee.

Or rather he _does_ , but he’s wound tight as hell already and he’s pretty sure that adding more caffeine on top of his already-racing heart would give _him_ a heart attack, and that’s not how this is supposed to go. So he just clutches the cup tightly and watches Barnes from the corner of his eye.

“Do you live here?” he asks. “In the city, I mean.”

“No,” Barnes says, stepping over a chunk of broken sidewalk. “I’m here for work.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I freelance.” Barnes turns his coffee in his hands. He hasn’t taken a single sip yet, and Clint is about ready to scream. “I’m a museum curator.”

Well, that fits with what Clint was reading in his file. “Sounds interesting.”

“It’s alright. Has its exciting moments. Mostly a lot of hurry up and wait. I spend a lot of time tracking things down.”

Barnes is eyeing him too, little sideways glances that simmer with anticipation. They keep catching each other’s eye, and okay, there’s definitely an undertone of tension between them.

_He hasn’t drank anything yet,_ Clint thinks. _So technically I could kiss him—_

He shakes his head slightly, forcing his mind back on track. “So how’d you get into that?”

“Curating? Just kinda fell into it, really. I’m good at finding things.” He glances at Clint again, and the tension just gets thicker.

_Stubble_ , Clint’s daydream brain sighs.

_Murder_ , his more pragmatic brain snaps.

Barnes raises an eyebrow, and Clint realizes that he’s staring. He flushes red a little bit and raises his cup to his lips.

Which, of course, is the exact moment Lucky decides to lunge for a pigeon. Because his dog is an _asshole_ and Clint is going to put him up for adoption the second he gets home.

And, just to make things worse, he lunges towards Barnes, and in the ensuing tangle of limbs and dog, they both manage to drop their coffee cups, splashing liquid all over the concrete.

“You rotten _bastard_ ,” Clint says, reeling Lucky in. He kneels down and grabs his collar. “It’s just a pigeon! You don’t have to eat every single pigeon that comes your way!”

Barnes looks disappointed, and Clint sighs. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Let me pay you back for that, that’s totally on me. I should’ve been paying attention.”

“Nah,” Barnes says. “It’s fine. Not like it was expensive.” He looks at his watch. “You know, I should probably get going, actually. I’m supposed to be at the Met by eleven.”

Clint grits his teeth. Goddamnit. The perfect opportunity for murder, ruined by a dog and a pigeon. Just his fucking luck. “Alright,” he says. “Uh. Wanna do bagels some other time?”

Barnes looks moderately surprised at this, but then he nods. “Okay. Sure.”

They trade phone numbers, and Barnes turns, walking the direction opposite. Clint stares after him, admiring the curve of his ass for a moment. Then he glares down at Lucky. “I’m not actually going to put you up for adoption,” he says, “because now I have his phone number. But I do hate you a tiny bit.”

Lucky barks, and Clint sighs. “Don’t lick the coffee,” he says, pulling Lucky away from the concrete. “Come on. We’re going home.”

* * *

His _phone number._ His target literally just handed him his fucking phone number. Bucky’s definitely retiring after this. This is like the assassin lottery.

Granted, attempt number one was ruined by a dog and a pigeon. But that’s fine. It was a long shot anyway. It’ll be better to try again when he’s more prepared. Maybe he can set up a date, get Barton alone somewhere. The guy’s clearly interested, judging from all the sideways looks. Probably wouldn’t take much effort to convince him to come back to Bucky’s little apartment. Ply him with a couple drinks, get him loosened up, then kill him.

_Could fuck him first,_ he thinks idly, then shakes his head. No. He’s not really into that.

He shoves open the door to his apartment and looks around. It’s nice, as far as city apartments go. He misses the beaches of the Caribbean, but it’s been a long time since he was in New York, and he’d forgotten how much he likes the hustle and bustle of the city.

He could stay. With the money from this job, he could get himself a fancy apartment in a high-rise and live there. Eat bagels and pizza, watch the traffic pass in that hypnotic way. It’d be a nice life. Sitting on the couch with a dog and a charmingly awkward blond haired man next to him—

Bucky smacks his forehead. “Stop it,” he says.

His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out of his pocket.

**CB: sry again about dog. no treats 4 him.**

Bucky laughs. _No big deal_ , he texts back. _I had a good time meeting you._ He hits send, then winces, because that’s such a dumb thing to say. He sounds like a fucking teenager.

**CB: same. wanna try for dinner on friday? i promise no fluffy interruptions.**

Bucky laughs again. _Sounds good to me._

**CB: gr8. you like pizza?**

**BB: Duh. Who doesn’t like pizza?**

They set up a time and place, and Bucky tosses his phone on the counter, feeling moderately pleased with himself. He’ll try and get the job done beforehand—Friday’s a few days away, and he prefers to be efficient about these kinds of things—but just in case, the date can be a backup.

“It’s not a date,” he immediately corrects himself. “He’s not a date, he’s a target. You don’t date.”

_Keep telling yourself that,_ some little part of him mutters gleefully. Bucky tells it to shut the fuck up and heads off to shower.

* * *

“Okay,” Clint says to Lucky, tossing his phone to the side. “Friday set as a backup, but the goal is to get it done before then.” He taps his finger on his chin. “I think I’ve got some poison arrows still around, I could get him from a distance.”

Lucky barks.

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint says. “You’re right. Too obvious.” He sighs. “I’m gonna have to follow him tomorrow, I think. See what his pattern is. Guy’s a fucking museum curator, he probably sticks to a pretty set schedule.” He skims through the file again, then nods. “Okay. That’s the plan.”

Lucky barks again, then whines, stretching out on the couch.

“Shush,” Clint says. “I’m not snuggling you. I’m still pissed you messed up my coffee murder.”

Another sad little whine, and Clint finds himself walking over. “Fine,” he says, flopping down on the couch. “But no head scratches.”

He suddenly has an image of Barnes scratching _his_ head, fingers rubbing through his hair as he stretches out on the couch, Lucky sprawled on top of him, and—

“ _Wow_ ,” Clint says, shoving the image away. “Come on, Barton. Stop thinking about him like that. He’s a goddamn target.”

Lucky blinks at him, long and slow, and Clint sighs. He could call Eddie again. It was a decent fuck; he wouldn’t mind a round two. Maybe that would scratch whatever itch he’s got. 

He picks up his phone, then sets it down and sighs again. “Never mind,” he mutters, patting Lucky on the head. “Just need to get the job done. That’ll take care of it.”

He reaches for the remote and flicks on _Dog Cops_. He can plan more tomorrow. Right now, he just needs to not think about it.

* * *

Barton comes out of his apartment building around seven in the morning, yawning and looking absolutely disgusted to be alive. Bucky watches from a distance as he takes Lucky across the street to a little park, letting him sniff around. “Come on,” he calls, looking at his watch. “I gotta check on the range first, do your business already.”

Lucky barks at him and Barton rubs his eyes, muttering something Bucky can’t quite hear. He lets Lucky do his thing, then they disappear back inside the building. A few minutes later he comes out alone, still looking tired as shit, and starts walking down the street.

He stops in at the cafe from yesterday, emerging minutes later with another coffee, and starts walking east, shuffling like a zombie. Bucky can sympathize. He doesn’t really want to be awake either.

He glances down the street. There’s a group of people all gathered around a giant piano, which is slowly being hoisted into the air on a crane. Clearly, it’s supposed to be going up to that giant window on the fourth story.

Bucky stares at it, then back at the slow way Clint is shuffling down the street. An idea comes to him, lightbulb-above-the-head cartoon style.

Which seems appropriate, given what the idea _is_.

“No,” he says. “That’s fucking ridiculous, come on.”

He ducks down an alley and jumps up, catching the edge of a fire escape to pull himself up for a better angle.

“Come on, Barnes. You are not dropping a piano on his head.”

He pulls out his gun and screws a silencer on, eyeing the canvas straps wrapped around the piano.

“You’re fucking insane.”

He takes careful aim, waiting for his moment.

“Seriously, what the fuck are you doing?”

Barton walks into range.

“You’re insane,” Bucky says again, and he fires.

* * *

Clint’s had some weird days in his life. It comes with the whole assassin thing. He’s fallen off buildings, and dodged bullets, and on one memorable occasion, had to hide from a particularly homicidal moose.

He’s never had a fucking piano fall on him, though. That’s a new one.

He gets about two seconds of warning as he walks underneath it, just enough time for the little voice in the back of his mind to scream _move move move._ He looks up, sees the piano list at a dangerous angle, and immediately twists out of the way, body moving without permission in some long-forgotten acrobatic, athletic-y kind of twist.

The piano crashes to the ground in a spectacular cacophony, splintering wood everywhere. He turns away, protecting his face and his coffee. There’s a whole lot of screaming after that, and the piano guys surround him. “Are you okay?” one asks, face white. “Holy shit, dude, that almost killed you!”

Clint shrugs. “Had worse,” he says, and sips his coffee. “I’m good. Excuse me.”

They stare at him as he sidles past, picking his way carefully over the wreckage without hurting himself. He squashes down a self-satisfied smile and turns to wave goodbye as they gape at him, mouths hanging open. “Be careful,” he calls to them. “Try not to kill anyone else today, yeah?”

He turns around, lifts his coffee to his mouth, and promptly spills it all down his shirt.

His _white_ shirt.

“Goddamnit,” he mutters. “I _just_ bought this.”

He chucks the now-empty cup in a nearby trash can, then strips his shirt off over his head and wrings out the coffee as best as he can, grumbling the entire time. When it’s as good as he’s going to get it, he shrugs it back on, then heads down to the range. He’ll snag a shirt from the gift shop or something.

Hopefully there’s some other choices besides that obnoxious pink color. He _hates_ that one.

* * *

Bucky watches Barton walk out of view, mouth hanging open the entire time.

“What the fuck?” he finally asks.

It was perfect. It was a great set-up. He’d _nailed_ the shot. The strap had shredded to pieces, and the piano had fallen, right on top of Barton, who’d looked up at the last second like it really was a fucking cartoon.

And then he’d...moved.

Except _moved_ isn’t really the right word. It was some weird combination of a dance and acrobatic twist, a truly fantastic motion that had turned him just the right amount. It was almost...

Well, honestly, it was hot as hell. Not that he’s into that, but he can appreciate athleticism when he sees it. And it was a good call, really. Bucky couldn’t have done better himself.

Barton had taken two steps away from the downed piano and poured coffee all down his shirt, which was more funny than anything, really. Bucky could almost forgive him for not dying just for that moment.

But then Barton had stripped his fucking shirt off and, holy shit, the guy had muscles for goddamn _days_. Tanned, defined, flexing muscles, and _Christ_ , Bucky’s got a fucking boner just from watching him wring out his damn shirt. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Get it together,” he says, adjusting his pants. “Stop—just _stop_ it.”

He scowls down the street after Barton. Alright, then. Time to try a more direct approach.

* * *

Clint walks out of the range, sporting an obnoxiously pink shirt that has, “Barton’s Archery Academy” splashed across the front, drawn over a target. His assistant Kate had handed it to him with a grin, and firmly denied the existence of any purple ones in the back.

“I hate you,” he’d said to her.

“I know,” she’d said back, all sugar sweetness. “Have a good day.”

Clint had considered going back to look for some, but eventually decided against it. Really, he should probably get started on finding Barnes. Friday’s four days away, and he needs to start making some headway on this before whoever’s paying for it decides to either drop the price or pull the job.

He catches a taxi over to the Met, and hangs around the outside of it, doing his best to keep a respectable, non-stalking distance. If Barnes does come out, he doesn’t want this to look too creepy.

“Being casual,” he says to himself, dragging out a chair at a cafe down the street. “Casual, casual.”

He sips another coffee and munches on a pastry, pretending to read a newspaper while watching the building. It’s boring as hell. He _hates_ this part of the job.

_Got his phone number. Could just text him._

“Nah,” he mutters, turning another page. “Don’t want to look desperate.”

_What does it matter? He’ll be dead. You’re not actually dating._

Which is...fair. They’re not dating. What does it matter if he asks to meet up now?

The dilemma is solved in a minute, though, because the roar of a motorcycle cuts through the street, and Clint turns to see Barnes himself parking a _gorgeous_ bike off in an alleyway to the side of the Met. Clint takes a moment to drool over it, then shakes himself and ducks back behind the newspaper, trying to ignore the inherent sexiness of a good-looking man on a motorcycle.

Especially _that_ man. Christ.

Barnes looks pissed about something, and he shoves the bike keys in his pocket before striding his way down the street towards the Met. Clint lets himself admire the walk—it’s like watching a lion stalk its prey, _goddamn—_ before ditching his newspaper and getting to his feet.

The bike is so beautiful. All shiny and chrome, with a chassis that he would probably be willing to marry or something. God, he loves motorcycles. It’s a shame to ruin this one, but duty calls. And with the money he’ll get from the job, he can buy himself a whole fleet of ones just like it.

He cuts the brake lines, then tucks his knife back into his pocket and resumes his place at the cafe. Too easy, really. Maybe he should retire after this. If all the jobs are going to be this simple, there’s just no fun in being an assassin. 

Retirement would be nice. He could get a little place on a beach somewhere. Sunshine, waves, palm trees, guys in speedos. _Wonder what Barnes would look like in a—_

“You’re _not_ fucking him,” he tells himself firmly, ignoring the sideways glances from the next table. “Get your head out of the gutter.”

He determinedly sips his coffee, orders another pastry, and waits for Barnes to come back out.

* * *

Bucky _hates_ museums. Boring, dusty things full of shit no one cares about. Especially art. He doesn’t know a damn thing about art, and he really doesn’t care to.

Still. He’s a thorough planner, and if by some odd chance Friday rolls around and Barton’s not dead, he’ll need to know enough shit about the Met to fake his way through dinner. So once he recovers from his little piano-shirt-boner moment, he gets on his motorcycle and weaves through traffic to the Met.

He spends two hours inside, walking around and making mental notes, getting more bored and frustrated by the moment. _How do people think this is entertaining?_ he screams internally, watching some rich couple work their way through the room. _I’d rather be shot at. That at least has some adrenaline involved._

When he’s seriously contemplating non-sanctioned murder to alleviate the boredom, he decides it’s time to go. He heads back out, not even bothering to keep his stride controlled. He doesn’t want to blend in. He wants people out of his goddamn way so he can get on his bike and go do something _interesting_.

The bike is right where he left it, no ticket or anything. Bucky swings a leg over and kicks it on, then rolls out into traffic without looking. He flips off the taxi that honks at him, and revs the engine, slipping through the cars. It’s immediately calming, the roiling emotions easing in him with every reckless twist of the bike.

The light in front of him turns yellow, and he reluctantly hits the brakes.

The bike does not slow down.

“Shit,” he says, hitting them again.

Nothing happens. The bike speeds forward, and the light turns red.

“Shit shit shit—!”

It’s like slow motion, almost. Bucky looks up in time to hear the blaring horn of a semi-truck, and he throws himself sideways, tucking and rolling. It’s awkward, and he jars his good arm pretty hard, but otherwise manages to pop up to his feet and dodge out of the way of another car. He scrambles onto the safety of the sidewalk, gasping for breath.

His motorcycle does not fare so well. The semi turns it into a flattened mess of metal, and Bucky winces hard, imagining that happening to his bones.

There’s a crowd around him, people clamoring excitedly, grabbing at him. Someone yells about 911, and the police, and Bucky panics a little at that, because the last thing he needs right now is people asking questions. He pulls his arm free, turns on his heels, and sprints away down the sidewalk, ignoring their calls after him.

He thinks he sees a blond-haired man out of the corner of his eye, but when he looks, there’s no one there. Then a police car comes around the corner, and Bucky forgets about it entirely in favor of disappearing.

* * *

Okay. Clint didn’t see that one coming either.

He’d winced hard at the semi truck—assassination’s his job, but death by semi’s just...messy, and awful, and he really didn’t want to see it.

But then Barnes had _dodged_ it, rolling sideways in some action movie-esque tuck that had saved him. He’d rolled right up on the sidewalk, popped up to his feet, and taken off down the street with barely a beat missed.

It was absolutely amazing.

It was also sexy as _fuck_.

Clint’s torn now, because on one hand, he needs the guy dead. On the other hand, he wants to take Barnes to dinner and ask him where the fuck a museum curator learned to survive dives off motorcycles like that.

Reasonably, he supposes that anyone who rides a bike probably knows how. Maybe Barnes did gymnastics or something in a former life. Something not in the file. It kinda looked like gymnastics.

Kinda looked like Clint’s own training, actually, which is...odd. It’s the _exact_ move he would’ve pulled, had he been in that position.

He shakes the thought away and starts walking down the street, trying to think about next steps. The bike had been a kind of spur-of-the-moment thing. A good plan, but he’s not too upset that it failed. He’ll just need to plan more.

“Still four days to Friday,” he says, nodding firmly. “Plenty of time to kill a guy.”

One of the people walking past gives him an odd look. He flashes a smile and moves a little faster.

He needs to chill out. Hit up a sauna or something. He always comes up with his best ideas when he’s relaxed and happy, letting his mind drift. Maybe that can be tomorrow’s plan. Take a day off from stalking Barnes and go relax.

_Yeah_ , he decides. _That sounds nice. Let’s do that._

* * *

“Careful what you wish for,” Bucky mutters, examining his shoulder in the bathroom mirror. “You wanted interesting? You fucking got it.”

No permanent damage, which is good. He’ll have some nasty bruises, and his hands are scraped to hell. He’s had worse. Mostly, he’s just annoyed with himself. He _knew_ the brakes were fucked on that bike. Should’ve gotten them checked weeks ago. It’s his own damn fault, really.

He slaps on another bandage and scowls at himself in the mirror. Maybe he needs to take a day off. There’s four days to Friday, still. That’s plenty of time to kill a guy. He should find a sauna, let himself relax a little in the heat. He just had a near death experience, after all. He’s entitled to a little relaxation.

He puts on one more bandage and shrugs his jacket back on. Okay. Food, and then sleep, and then spend tomorrow just relaxing.

“It’s a good plan,” he agrees, then sighs. _You gotta quit talking to yourself so much, Barnes. People are going to think you’re nuts._

Well, to be fair. He tried to drop a piano on a guy’s head today. Maybe he is a little crazy after all.

Bucky glances at his phone, wondering if he should text Barton or something. A spa would be a good place to get him. Guards are down, it’s a relatively low-key atmosphere. He could make it look like a medical accident.

Plus, he’d get to see more of those muscles. Not that he’s into that or anything, but the man is pretty much art incarnate. And Bucky would know—he just spent two hours looking at art from all over the world. He’s a fucking expert now.

His hand hovers over his phone for a moment.

Then he shakes his head. No. He needs the day to himself. Besides, they’ve barely had an hour’s worth of conversation. It’s probably a little soon for a sauna date.

_You’re not dating_ , he reminds himself. _You don’t date._

He leaves the phone on the counter and goes to put his shoes on. There’s a little Chinese place around the corner; he saw it this morning. That would probably make a good dinner.

* * *

“I’m going to move in here permanently,” Clint announces to the empty sauna room, stretching like a contented cat. “Fuck, this is so good.”

It’s perfect. It’s nice, and calming, and he feels _so_ much better than he did twenty-four hours ago. The piano thing hadn’t _really_ bothered him, but a brush with death is always at least a little jarring, and it’s nice to let the tension of that drain out.

Clint stretches again, not bothering to catch the towel as it shifts, leaving him uncovered. He’s alone in here anyway, and _he_ certainly doesn’t care about people seeing him through the window. He knows what he looks like.

His mind drifts with thoughts. It’s looking like he’s going to have to snipe this guy, really. Which is fine, he’s good with sniping. Making things look like an accident is his preferred method, but he does what the job calls for. Plus, he hasn’t had a chance to pull out his bow in awhile. He’ll find out where Barnes is staying, then stick a couple arrows in him. The world will be down one suspiciously athletic, extremely attractive museum curator, and Clint can fuck off to his deserted island to swim in his piles of money like Scrooge Fucking McDuck.

Clint nods and crosses his arms behind his head. _See? Saunas are great places to think._

There’s a shadow at the door so he reaches down and readjusts the towel, then puts his hand back and closes his eyes. He’s got enough time for a short nap, at least. Get a little rest in before his night of mayhem and murder.

* * *

Bucky stares through the window of the sauna, barely daring to even breathe.

That’s Clint Barton. Right there. Laying on one of the steps of the sauna, his arms behind his head, and a towel covering—

Well. Nothing. It’s covering nothing.

Bucky swallows hard and tightens his own towel around his waist. _What the fuck?_

That’s twice now. Twice that he’s run into Barton unplanned. He’d call it a coincidence, but he doesn’t really believe in those. Bucky hadn't even known this place _existed_ until he'd looked online for local spas and saunas last night, and had been pulled in by the high reviews. But this _has_ to be a coincidence, because there’s no way Barton could’ve planned either of these encounters. 

He’s right there, and so are his muscles, and he’s just...he’s made of sunshine, all tanned and blond and there are _freckles—_

“Jesus,” Bucky whispers. He’s not religious, but this—well, this sight would make anyone find God.

He shifts slightly, realizing he’s been standing here and staring for way too long. Almost as if in response to that motion, Barton reaches down and flicks the towel back over himself. Barely. Just enough to cover his dick.

Not that Bucky’s looking at that or anything. He’s not into guys. Not even very muscled, very tanned, drop-dead gorgeous—

“Stop it,” he hisses at himself. “You can’t—this is not the time—”

Barton shifts again, and Bucky immediately steps out of sight. He’s dizzy, almost, breathing way too fast, head spinning.

It’s just the heat. It’s just the heat, and he’s still on edge from yesterday, and he hasn’t had sex in a long-ass time, that’s all. That’s all this is. Pent-up emotion and he’s just keyed up and he needs to kill this guy and get out of here, _now_.

He reaches out and locks the sauna door. It’s not the best move, but it’s all he can think of at the moment. He can’t go in there. If he goes in there...

Well, he’s not going to. So it’s irrelevant.

Besides, this will work. Saunas are dehydrating, and there’s no one else around. If Barton passes out in there, there won’t be any help coming. This will work. It has to work.

Bucky’s dressing himself before he really has a chance to think about it, any thoughts of relaxing completely gone from his mind. It’s just good practice, really. He shouldn’t hang around the scene of the crime.

_You have to confirm death_ , a part of him argues.

_You can confirm death from a safe distance_ , he argues back. _Just like always. Get out of here, NOW._

He shrugs his jacket on, shoves his feet into his shoes, and bolts out the door like the goddamn place is on fire.

* * *

Clint wakes up from his nap feeling both refreshed and _way_ too fucking hot. “Ugh,” he says, sitting up slowly. He checks his watch—almost thirty minutes in here, he should leave. No point in dehydrating himself too much more.

He wraps his towel around his waist and reaches for the door.

It doesn’t open.

Clint tries it again, then sighs. “Goddamn janky door,” he mutters, wiggling it. “I fucking _told_ them to get this fixed, some old dude’s gonna get stuck in here—”

He attempts the usual method, and after a couple tries, it works. The door bursts open, and Clint stumbles out with the momentum of it. “Ow,” he murmurs, rubbing his shoulder. “Rude.”

He showers and gets dressed, then makes his way into the lobby. “Door lock’s broken,” he informs the receptionist. “You guys seriously need to fix that. You’re gonna have a lawsuit on your hands if you don’t.”

The receptionist shakes her head. “I thought we did—”

“Here,” Clint says, leaning over and picking a pen and some paper from her desk. “I know a lock guy, he’ll set you up with something more high-tech. Name’s Tony Stark, he’s a good man. You’ll like him.”

“We can’t afford him—”

Clint waves a hand. “I’ll pay for it,” he says, thinking of the dollars just waiting to be transferred into his account. “You guys are my favorite place, I don’t want you closed down because some old guy passed out in your sauna. Okay?”

“I...”

“Great. When he comes by, just throw it on my account.” He smiles at her, and she blushes. “See you later, darlin’.”

He walks back to his apartment, a spring in his step. It’s been a good day so far, and hopefully, it’ll be a good night as well.

* * *

From a roof across the street, Bucky watches Barton walk out of the spa, looking happy as hell, and he grits his teeth. “Goddammit.”

_Oh come on, Barnes. You knew it was a long shot._

Well, yeah. Doesn’t mean he couldn’t hope otherwise.

He sighs and rubs his forehead. He’s gonna have to shoot this guy. There’s no other way around it. He’s going to have to figure out where the least amount of eyes will be, and shoot him. It’s not his favorite method—too obvious, he prefers things to look like an accident—but it’ll at least get the fucking job done. And more and more, he’s feeling like he just needs to get the fucking job done. Get it done and get the hell out of New York. Maybe go to Alaska. Alaska’s cold. That could be nice.

His gaze drifts back to Barton, who’s kneeling down to pet a dog. He’s wearing those jeans again, the tight ones, and his—

“Stop looking at his ass,” he sighs. “Christ, you gotta get laid. Like, _now_.”

He thinks about it for a moment. Certainly not outside the realm of possibility. Could pick up a girl, spend the night with her, get his head on straight. Might even relax him a little bit, since his sauna plans were so rudely derailed.

Worth a try, anyway. As long as it’s someone with dark hair. He needs to get his mind off of sunshine, and freckles, and tanned muscles. Needs to quit thinking about what all that skin would feel like under his hands, if Barton would arch into his touch or—

He scrambles to his feet and makes his way off the roof. “Baseball,” he mutters. “Baseball, baseball. Think about baseball.”

He walks down the street, hands crammed in his pockets.

He does not think about baseball.

* * *

That night, Clint arranges himself on a rooftop and sets down his sniper rifle case. He’d had to forgo the bow in this case—a bullet would work better, and he wouldn’t have to retrieve the arrows. Disappointing, but it’s the right time to be practical.

Plus, it’s been a long time since he’s gotten to use Barry. Poor thing’s been sitting in the back of his closet collecting dust for far too long. He keeps it calibrated, but he hasn’t had a chance to do a real, proper assassination with it.

Clint sets everything up and lays down, finding Barnes easily through the scope. He’s in his little apartment, shades open, apparently alone. He looks pissed about something again, and Clint idly wonders what it is. Not that it’ll matter in a minute, but still. He’s curious.

He adjusts the scope a little, watching Barnes pace around his tiny living room. There’s not enough space for him, so it’s almost comical to witness. Three steps, turn. Three steps, turn. Three steps—

Barnes says something, then shakes his head and drops dramatically onto the couch. Clint chuckles, tightening his finger around the trigger. One shot to shatter the window, one shot for his head. Easy-peasy, back in bed by midnight.

In his scope, Barnes sighs and rubs his forehead, still looking put out about something.

“Don’t worry,” Clint mutters. “It’ll all be better in a second.”

Barnes sits forward, then throws himself back against the couch. Clint scowls, readjusts the scope—

And stops, because Barnes is unbuckling his pants.

“Uh,” Clint says.

Barnes shoves them down to his knees, and he’s not wearing anything underneath them. Not a single thing. Clint stares, trigger finger forgotten, as Barnes wraps a hand around his dick and starts stroking it.

“Uh,” he says again, because what the fuck is he supposed to do with this?

Well. He knows what he _should_ do. He should take the damn shot, pack Barry up, and get the hell out of here.

He doesn’t.

Clint swallows, then takes his hand off the trigger and rests it on the ground. It would be rude, really, to shoot a guy while he’s jerking off. No one wants to die with their dick out.

Not even if it’s a really nice dick. Jesus _Christ_ , it’s nice. Thick, and long, and Clint licks his dry lips, imagining his mouth around it. He _wants_ his mouth around it. Wants to feel it on his tongue, wants to see how long it would take Barnes to call his name, wants to—

He lets out a long breath and drops his head down to the gravel. “Come on,” he says. “You can’t watch a guy jerk off, that’s just...so wrong.”

And so hot. God, it’s hot. His cock is pressing uncomfortably against his tac pants, and he can feel the thrum of arousal coursing through him, and he really should get out of here before—

“Oh, who are you kidding,” he mutters, and puts his eye back to the scope.

Barnes’s head is tipped back, and he’s mouthing something Clint can’t really make out. Clint watches, enthralled, as he strokes himself. He’s taking his time about it, teasing himself, going nice and slow. His other hand is rubbing over his nipples, circling them through his shirt.

Clint swallows hard, not really sure what to look at first. He wants Barnes to take everything off, wants to see it—

As if by unspoken command, Barnes yanks his shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor. Clint’s jaw just about hits the fucking ground. _Museum curator my ass,_ he thinks hazily, watching Barnes roll one of his nipples in slow, lazy motion. _Olympic athlete, maybe. Or something. Jesus._

Barnes turns a little on the couch, making himself more comfortable, and there’s a flash of silver. A knife, Clint thinks at first, but no. It’s a hand. His hand. His whole damn left arm is silver. It’s some kind of wicked-looking prosthetic, and for a moment Clint forgets how hard he is in favor of drooling over it. It’s beautiful, the way it flexes and turns and catches the light and—

“Fuck this,” Clint says, scrambling to his knees. He unscrews the scope from the rifle, sits up a little bit, and holds it up with one hand. His other hand fumbles at his own belt, and he gets his pants out of the way enough to free his cock, immediately wrapping a hand around it.

Barnes moans, his head tilting back. It’s gorgeous, and a little obscene, and Clint has to take a deep breath to keep himself under control. “Fucking hell.”

He wants to be there in person. He wants to feel those metal fingers wrap in his hair, pull him around a little bit, push him over a table and open him up for that big cock.

Barnes kicks his pants off the rest of the way, then lets one of his legs fall to the ground, spreading himself wider. Clint has to look away for a moment. This is insane. Absolutely insane. He’s supposed to be shooting this guy, and all he can think about is how much he wants Barnes to fucking _ruin_ him.

Clint looks back through the scope, nagging moral objections shoved aside in favor of watching the show. He bites back a whimper as Barnes moves to his other nipple, toying with the piercing in it. “Fuck,” Clint whispers, drawing in a ragged breath as heat unfurls in his gut. Christ, he’s not gonna last long. Not with this in front of him.

Barnes moans again, his hand moving a little faster on his cock, hips rolling sinfully with the motion. Clint’s fingers tighten around the scope and he bites his lip hard, only just barely holding back his own orgasm. He can’t come, not yet, he doesn’t want to miss a single fucking second of this.

On the couch, Barnes hikes up his other leg a little higher, then slides his metal hand down his skin, all the way to the curve of his ass. His expression changes—unsure, almost, but with a little hint of determination in it—and slowly, carefully, he rubs a single finger around his hole.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Clint says, and that’s it, he’s done. He comes with the force of a fucking freight train, nearly biting through his lip in an effort to keep silent. His breath comes in sharp, gasping pants, his fingers tightening around the scope as his mind goes blank for several long seconds.

When he’s got some semblance of thoughts back together, he lifts the scope and looks through it again. Barnes is apparently right on the edge too, and as Clint watches, his body tenses, arching up off the couch as he comes all over his chest, working himself through it with a steady hand, one finger just barely pressed inside.

Clint makes a faint noise that might be either a curse or a prayer, he’s not sure which. Barnes collapses back to the couch, shuddering, and lets go of his cock, dropping his leg to the cushions. He sighs contentedly, face relaxing into a blissful expression.

Reality hits him with a slap in the face, suddenly, and Clint feels like an absolute asshole for watching that. He shamefully tucks himself back into his pants, wiping his hand off on the fabric. “There is something wrong with you,” he says. “Seriously. So wrong.”

He puts the scope back on his rifle, then flops down to look through it again. Barnes is still on the couch, arm thrown over his eyes as he breathes deeply.

Clint puts his finger on the trigger. _Now or never._

Barnes suddenly looks alarmed, and for a wild moment, Clint thinks his cover’s blown. But then Barnes scrambles to his feet, hurries to the window, and pulls the shade shut. Clint just barely catches a glimpse of the embarrassed look on his face.

“Goddammit, Barton” Clint mutters, dropping his head down to the ground. “Okay. That one’s on you.”

He packs up Barry, fingers still a little trembly and fuzzy, and climbs down off the roof. It’s time to end this, honestly. It was fun at first, playing the game, imagining what might be, but it’s starting to get out of hand now, and Clint needs to put a stop to it before it gets any bigger. Barnes is just another job in a long line of them, no matter how hot he looks. Clint needs to quit forgetting that.

“Tomorrow,” he promises himself as he starts walking home. “You’ll kill him tomorrow, and then it’ll be over, and you can call what’s-his-name and take him on a very nice vacation or something.”

Yeah. That’s a plan. He can do that.

* * *

Bucky wakes up the next morning and stretches in blissful ignorance for about four seconds before the memory of last night hits him like a freight train, and he wants to fucking _die_.

“Oh my god,” he mutters into his pillow, curling up in the blankets. “Oh my _god_.”

He’d tried not to think about it too much last night. Tried to let the endorphins and good feelings pull him along until he went to bed and passed out hard. But now those good feelings are gone, and he’s left with the memory of jerking off to the image of Barton in the sauna, all stretched out and sweaty and—

“ _No_ ,” he says, and gets out of bed with a vengeance. “No, no, and no again. You’re killing him today, you’re leaving town, and that’s _it_.”

He repeats that like a mantra while he gets ready, brushing his teeth and combing his hair into some vague semblance of control. Then he tucks a gun and a knife into his jacket, and flips open his phone, hoping to see a text from Barton.

There’s nothing, which is fine. He knows where to look. Knows what to do, too. The guy likes dogs, right? Bucky’s got just the plan for that. It’s probably a stupid plan, but it’s a damn sight better than locking the fucking sauna door.

He looks out the window—the same window he’d forgotten to close last night, some professional he is—and scowls at the rays of sunlight creeping over the buildings. “Alright,” he mutters, grabbing his keys. “Step one. Find a dog.”

This turns out to be harder than anticipated. It takes him most of the morning to find an unattended dog, and the damn thing turns out to be a biter. Bucky’s seriously considering giving up this plan—seriously, it’s so stupid, why the _fuck_ is he doing this—when he finally gets to that coffee shop that Barton likes. Sure enough, Barton is sitting outside, sipping a coffee while he scrolls through something intently on his phone.

He’s in black jeans today, and a leather jacket over a grey t-shirt. It’s a very biker-boy kind of look. Not that Bucky’s into that or anything, but it’s definitely a good look on Barton, especially with the lazy way he’s lounging in the chair. As Bucky watches, he drops one hand down to scratch at the golden retriever laying at his feet.

_Perfect_ , Bucky thinks, and sets his own dog down. As hoped, it immediately goes over to sniff at Barton’s dog—Lucky, he remembers—and Bucky quickly steps around the corner of the alley, letting the leash slide through his fingers. He just needs Barton to follow this dog into the alley, far enough that he’s out of immediate view of the street. Then Bucky can step in, slice his throat, and call it a day.

He’ll leave Barton’s dog with that red-haired woman. She seemed nice, she’ll probably take good care of him. He’s a good dog, just because Barton needs to die doesn’t mean Lucky should suffer. Bucky’s an assassin, not a monster.

The little biting Yorkie yips, and as Bucky had hoped, Lucky immediately takes interest. He gets up, jostling Barton in the process, and follows the Yorkie around the corner as Bucky tugs it backwards. It’s kinda like fishing, really. The end result will just be more...bloody.

“Lucky,” Barton sighs, and Bucky hears the chair scrape back. “Now? Really?”

He follows the dog around the corner, and Bucky keeps out of sight, still tugging the leash. As soon as Barton gets past the dumpster, it’s game time.

“Aw,” Barton says, and Bucky leans around the corner enough to see him kneeling, hand stretched out to the Yorkie. “Hey, little guy. You lost? Where’s your person?”

The leash goes taut in his hand, jerking through it hard enough to burn his fingers with the friction. Bucky hisses in pain, then tightens his grip on it. _Come on, Barton. Just a little further._

Barton makes soft noises, one hand pushing Lucky out of the way. They’re all tangled up in each other, Lucky and the other dog, and Barton is untangling them while calmly murmuring to both. The Yorkie isn’t biting _him_ at all, which Bucky thinks is entirely unfair.

The leash goes slack, and Barton stands up, letting the end of it trail to the ground. “I got you,” he says, cradling the Yorkie in one arm. “Let’s take you to the vet, huh? See if you’ve got a chip or something.” He winds Lucky’s leash around his arm, then looks at the Yorkie’s collar. “Bitsy? Hi, Bitsy. I’m Clint, this is Lucky. We’ll help you out.”

He walks out of the alley, whistling to himself. Bucky stares after him, one hand still loosely gripping the leash.

“Well,” he finally says, scratching his head. “That...that didn’t work.”

Honestly, he’s not sure why he expected it to work at all. It’s not going to go on his list of greatest hits, that’s for sure. He actually kind of wants to forget it completely. He’s a _professional_ , for fucks sake. This is supposed to be the thing he’s good at, and he literally just tried to go fishing with a dog.

Bucky drops the leash and storms out of the alley, walking opposite the direction Barton went. He can do better than that. He is better than that. He’s going to go home, sit down, and come up with an actual goddamn plan.

One that doesn’t involve biting Yorkies this time.

* * *

Clint gets the phone call after dropping off the Yorkie at a local vet. He doesn’t recognize the ringtone, at first—The Phone rarely gets calls, text messages are usually the norm—and it takes him a panicky moment to dig it out and answer. “Barton.”

“I have a job for you,” comes the robotic voice.

“I’m _on_ a job.”

“It’s urgent. Hence the call. You can return to your other job after this one is complete.”

Clint considers. “How much?”

“Five million.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn. This an open offer or private?”

“Open.”

Clint considers for a moment, then nods. “I’m in. Send me the details.”

There’s a click on the other end, and Clint pulls the phone away from his ear, waiting for the message. It comes through a few moments later. Target: Alexander Pierce. Location: New York City.

Well. At least he won’t have to go far.

He skims through the file quickly. There’s not a lot there, but there doesn’t need to be. He knows where the target’s going to be. There’s apparently a fancy party on Friday night, and Clint now has an invitation.

“Aw, tuxedos, no,” he mutters, scowling at the black tie instructions. “I hate wearing a tux.”

He tucks The Phone away and pulls out his personal one, then fires off a text to Barnes. _Friday a no go. 2mrow @7 work for u?_

The reply comes a few minutes later. _Sounds good, see you there._

“Cool,” he says, and puts it away. “This will work out nicely, then.”

He’ll meet up with Barnes tomorrow, and take him out once and for all. Then he’ll go to the party on Friday, drop Pierce, and then he can fuck off to his deserted island to roll in his obscene riches. Clint doesn’t normally care for having two jobs at once, but between the certainty of Barnes’s payment and the potential of Pierce’s...well, it’s worth it.

He pulls on Lucky’s leash. “Come on, you. I gotta go dust off my monkey suit.”

* * *

Bucky gets the call while he’s walking home. He fumbles The Phone out of his pocket and flicks it open, registering dimly that it’s a call and not a message. “Barnes.”

“I have a job for you,” comes the robotic voice.

“I’ve already got one.”

“This is urgent.”

“I’m really—”

“Five million.”

Bucky pauses, then says, “Open or private?”

“Open.”

Ugh. He despises open offers. Always draws out the rest of the assassin crowd, and Bucky hates having to fight over his kills. That was why he was determined to be good at this, so that he could start getting more private offers. He’s pretty much exclusive to those now.

Still. Five million. That’s no small amount. Probably worth the stress of running two jobs at once, too.

“Okay. Send me the details.”

The line clicks, and Bucky looks at the screen. It buzzes a moment later. Target: Alexander Pierce. Location: New York City.

“Convenient,” he mutters. Well, that’s probably why they called him. He skims through the rest of the file and opens the invitation at the end. Black tie party, fantastic. He hasn’t had a chance to break out his tux in a long time.

His personal phone vibrates and he swaps The Phone for that one. It’s Barton. _Friday a no go. 2mrow @7 work for u?_

“Perfect,” he says, and texts back. _Sounds good, see you there._

This will work out just fine. He’ll take Barton out tomorrow, then go to the party and take out Pierce, then fuck off for another well-deserved vacation. Maybe even retirement. Between Barton’s payout and Pierce’s...yeah. He’s set for life.

He starts walking down the street, suddenly much happier than he was twenty minutes ago. This was exactly what he needed.

Things are gonna work out just fine.

* * *

Clint dresses up a little for his date. He doesn’t know why, really, but it just feels like the right thing to do. If he’s gonna kill the guy, might as well give him something nice to look at, right?

He’s the first to arrive at the pizza place—same place he took Edwin or whoever, he should probably get a new spot one of these days—and picks out a booth, then orders them both water. As soon as the waitress turns her back, he tips a vial into Barnes’s water and stirs it. Barnes shouldn’t be able to taste anything, but he’s just gonna be careful. This will be attempt number four, and he doesn’t want to fuck this up.

Barnes shows up a minute later. “Hey,” he says, dropping into the seat across from Clint. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” Clint says, smiling at him. “Have a good day?”

“Yeah.” He sips his water. Clint looks at his hands, the way they’re wrapped around the glass. He suddenly remembers what it was like to watch those same hands as they wrapped around Barnes’s cock, slowly stroking and teasing, sliding over sensitive skin—

He clears his throat and leans forward. “So...what’s new with you?”

“Not much,” Barnes says. “I got another museum job to track down, so...” He shrugs one shoulder. “That’s about it. You?”

“I found a dog yesterday,,” Clint says, thinking about the Yorkie.

Barnes shifts a little bit. “Did you?”

“Yeah. Cute little Yorkie named Bitsy. She was trapped in an alley; I took her to a vet. She’s chipped. Her owner was pretty thrilled to have her back. She wandered almost twelve blocks, that’s pretty far for a small dog like her.”

“That was nice of you,” Barnes says, looking distantly uncomfortable. Clint’s not really sure why.

“Well, I like dogs.” He smiles. “You remember Lucky?”

“Vividly.”

Clint recounts Lucky’s adoption story, trying to keep things light between them. Barnes keeps drinking the water, asking questions in all the right spots. By the time the pizza arrives, the glass is empty, and the waitress brings another one to him.

Clint takes a slice and watches carefully as Barnes does the same. He should be feeling the effects pretty soon. It’s subtle, this stuff, but it’s efficient. Clint would know—part of his training was to build up an immunity to it, so he’s had it in doses. He knows intimately what it feels like, and honestly, he feels a little bad about using it. It’s a shit way to die, really.

Still. It needs to happen, and this is the best way. It’ll look like Barnes had a medical emergency. The ambulance will haul him off, Clint will dodge questions, and then he can go home and think about how best to take out Pierce. Open call means he’s gonna have to be first to the finish on this one. No time for finesse. He’ll have to hit hard and fast.

Barnes takes another slice. He’s talking about the Met now, animatedly gesturing between bites, and it’s fascinating to watch. Clint doesn’t know shit about the Met, but he could listen to Barnes talk about it all day. The guy could probably go on for hours about _anything_ and Clint would listen with rapt attention. There’s just something so...compelling about him.

Clint almost regrets having to kill him.

Although he’s wondering when, exactly, the killing is going to happen. Because by his count, Barnes should’ve started having trouble breathing two slices ago, and he’s not. He’s not even sweating.

Except Clint must be staring too much, because Barnes stops mid-sentence and tilts his head. “Something on my face, or...”

“Sorry,” Clint says, blushing a little. “I just...” He scrambles for something to say. _I’m waiting for you to keel over and die_ doesn’t really seem like the right thing here.

Barnes raises an eyebrow, and Clint sighs. “You’re really hot,” he says, which is technically the truth. Barnes is very hot, and if Clint wasn’t waiting for the guy to die, he’d probably be staring anyway. “It’s distracting,” he adds with a grin. Barnes’s eyes go wide, a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look, and Clint isn’t sure if he should laugh or not.

“Thanks,” Barnes finally says after a moment, still looking alarmed. “You, uh...you’re not too bad yourself.”

“I know,” Clint says, with the flirtiest wink he can manage. Barnes chokes a little on his pizza, then sets it down on his plate.

“I should go,” he says. “I should—I need to leave.” He frantically grabs at his jacket and shrugs it on. 

Clint blinks, because that was _not_ something he was expecting. “Wait, what?”

“I’m sorry,” Barnes says, sliding out of the booth. He pulls out his wallet and tosses a couple bills on the table. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have come here. I—I’m sorry.”

“I was just joking,” Clint says. “It was just—you don’t have to go, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Barnes shakes his head. “Thanks for dinner,” he says, then hesitates before adding, “You look nice.” He vanishes out the door like his ass is on fire, leaving Clint to stare at the suddenly empty seat across from him.

“Well...fuck,” Clint says, and slumps backwards.

The waitress comes over with the check. “That looked interesting.”

“I’m not sure what just happened,” Clint admits, rubbing his eyebrows. “Uh. He was _here_ , right? I’m not crazy or anything.”

“He was here,” she assures him. “What did you say?”

“I told him he was hot,” Clint mumbles, dropping his forehead down to the table. “I’m a moron.”

“Just a little bit,” she says, patting his back.

He starts to get up. “I should follow him—”

“No,” she says. “Trust me. You really shouldn’t.”

_But I kinda need to see if he’s dead..._

Clint looks out the door, then at the water glass. Barnes probably isn’t dead. If the vial had worked like it was supposed to, he would’ve been down long before Clint put his foot in his fucking mouth.

“Ugh,” he says, and buries his face in his hands.

The waitress pats his arm apologetically. “Want some cake, hon?”

He nods, a pathetic little motion, and she disappears from his side. When she’s gone, he pulls the vial from his pocket and checks the label. It’s not expired. It _should’ve_ worked.

_Assuming you put it in the right glass._

“Of course I put it in the right glass,” he mutters. “I’m not stupid, I—” He cuts off.

_Did_ he put it in the right glass? He’d thought so, but he wasn’t really paying attention when Barnes grabbed it. It’s possible he grabbed the opposite one, and—

“Shit,” Clint says, and feels the urge to knock his head on the table. _Fucking poisoned yourself, you idiot. Some assassin you are._

The waitress returns with his cake. Clint tucks a twenty dollar bill into her apron when she’s not looking, then grabs the box and sidles out the door, trying not to make eye contact with anybody else. He really doesn’t need to add to the shame factor right now.

His phone buzzes, and he pulls it out of his pocket. It’s Barnes. A single text, with a single word.

_Sorry_.

Clint scowls at it, then shoves the phone in his pocket, ignoring the growing feeling of nausea in his stomach. It’s gonna be a miserable night, he knows, and it's his own damn fault.

“You’re an idiot,” he tells himself again, and with a dejected sigh starts walking home.

* * *

Bucky is seriously considering taking out a contract on himself, because honestly, what the fuck is wrong with him? He literally just ran away from a date like a nervous kid, and why? Because he couldn’t handle some flirting?

It’s stupid, really. He knows how to flirt. He’s _great_ at flirting. He’s the guy that can walk into a bar and charm the pants off of anybody who even looks in his direction. Seduction is one of his favorite ways to get close to a target. Nothing better than some casual teasing to make someone drop their guard.

There’s just _something_ about Barton, though. Something that makes Bucky’s brain go offline. He’s got such a presence to him, all easy confidence and smiles. And that black button-down shirt looked so _good_ on him, and if Bucky was into guys, he would’ve dragged Barton back to his apartment just to see if it looked as good on his bedroom floor.

He’s not, though. Not into guys. He’s just...admiring. No law against appreciating a nice shirt, right?

Bucky sighs and rubs his nose. “You’re a fucking disaster,” he mutters. Some professional he is. He’d meant to drop a vial into Barton’s water, and he’d let himself get distracted by the story about Lucky, and the way Barton’s eyes had lit up, all bright with laughter. And then Barton had asked him about the Met, and Bucky had spent two fucking hours in that damn museum, so he sure as hell wasn’t gonna hold back, and—

Well. Point being, he had a job to do, and he didn’t do it. And then he ran away like a coward because Barton said he was hot.

_You’re such an idiot._

Bucky digs out his personal phone and hovers over Barton’s number for a moment. Should he...call? Send a text? Go back?

“Fuck,” he sighs, and opts for a text.

_Didn’t mean to freak out on you like that, it’s just that I’m not into guys_

No. He can’t say that.

_You looked really good in that shirt and it was fucking with my head a little bit_

God, that’s worse.

_I can’t stop thinking about you and the way you_

_I think I might be_

“Come on, Barnes,” he mutters. “Just tell him something.”

Eventually, he settles on something short and sweet. Something that hopefully gets the point across without opening him up to any other potential feelings.

_Sorry_.

He sends it, then stares at the screen for a moment.

“You’re a goddamn coward, Barnes,” he sighs, and starts walking home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abs. Shoulders. Miles and miles of tanned skin and toned lines of muscles. There’s a dead man outside the door, and all Bucky can think about is how much he wants to lick every single inch of skin on display. How much he wants to touch it, see if it’s as warm and soft as it looks, see if the sudden electricity in the air between them can be felt if he puts his hand on—

Clint pulls uncomfortably at his bow tie, which earns him nothing more than a narrowed eye glare from Kate. “If you mess that up,” she says sharply, “I’ll pin you to the targets at the range and outline you in arrows.”

“I won’t,” he says, fiddling with his collar. “Are you sure I look okay?”

“You look very good. Very hot. Ten out of ten.” She tugs his hands down. “Stop playing with it.”

“I hate these kinds of things,” he complains. “I feel so out of place.”

“So why are you going?”

“Because I was invited.” _And because there’s some nice dollar signs attached to the guy throwing the party._

She fixes his collar for him. “Okay. You look good. Kate-approved.”

“Thank you,” he says, leaning forward. “I appreciate your help. Here and at the range.”

“I only came to see your dog,” she tells him, flipping her hair over her shoulder before settling on the floor to pet Lucky. “Do you want me to keep him all night, or...?”

“If you don’t mind.” He reaches up to mess with his hair, then drops it at her look. “I’m not sure when I’m gonna be back.”

He’s hoping it’ll be a short night, really. He still feels like crap, although it hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. Last time he drank a vial, he was in bed for days afterwards. Now he just feels a little unsteady. It’s tolerable for now, but he wants to keep things short and sweet tonight. Get in, kill Pierce, get out. Easy.

Kate gathers up Lucky’s toys and clips a leash on him, then kisses Clint on the cheek. “Have fun tonight.”

“Uh-huh. Boring black tie party. Super fun.”

“At least you’ll have good drinks,” she says, reaching for the door. “I’ve heard Pierce has a hell of a wine cellar.”

“Mmm.” She opens the door, and Clint gives Lucky one last ear scratch. “See ya, buddy. Have fun.”

“Oh hey,” Kate says, “there’s a package on your doorstep.” She hands it to him.

“Sweet, thanks.” He takes it, then waves goodbye and shuts the door.

He’d called The Lab last night after the disastrous date and made a couple requests. Some more vials, a few extra poison packets. Basic kit stuff. Should’ve stocked up a couple jobs ago, really, but he’s been getting lazy about that kind of thing.

There’s also a new pen injector labeled “sleep.” Clint hesitates on that one, but then decides not to take it. Best not to test brand new stuff on an open hit. He’ll save that one for later. Maybe see what it does to Barnes.

_You look hot. It’s distracting._

Clint flushes red again and tries to shove the memory of the date aside. He doesn’t need to be thinking about that right now. It’s time to focus. Take out Pierce, and he can worry about Barnes later.

Still, he looks at his phone again to see if there’s another text, just like he has several times already today. And just like before, there’s nothing. Just that single word, sitting there. _Sorry_.

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells himself. “He’s going to die tomorrow anyway, and you’re the guy killing him. Who cares what he thinks of you?”

He nods sharply and grabs his stuff, making sure to get the invitation. He’d better get moving if he’s going to make it there on time. No point in being fashionably late to an open call assassination contract.

* * *

Bucky adjusts his bowtie one last time in the back of the taxi, then slides out onto the driveway. The party is at a _massive_ mansion, almost intimidating in size. Bucky’s fine with black-tie parties and dressing up, but even he has to take a moment to collect himself. These people are obscenely, disgustingly rich.

_And you will be too,_ he reminds himself. _Between this and Barton, you’re set for life. For the next three lives, really. You can retire to an island on the other side of the world and never think about him again._

Except he’s questioning the truth of that statement, because he’s been thinking about Barton pretty much non-stop since he walked out of that restaurant, and it’s getting ridiculous. He was putting on his fucking bowtie when he suddenly wondered what Barton would look like in a tux, if the dark color would set off his blond hair, make him look even more like a ray of sunshine.

Not that he’s into that or anything, but it would probably be a good look. Barton seems like the kind of man who could pull off a tux pretty well.

_Wonder if you could convince him to pull_ your _tux off—_

“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, and starts walking up the steps, which are lined nicely with strings of white lights, setting off a welcoming glow.

At the front door, a woman in a stunning black dress checks his invitation, then gestures him inside with a smile. Bucky smiles back and steps through the door into the biggest foyer he’s ever seen in his fucking life. It’s huge, and impeccably decorated, with a twin set of staircases that curve up towards a second level. Bucky has to take a moment to make sure his mouth isn’t hanging open, because if this is just the foyer, he can’t even imagine what the rest of the house looks like.

_You can have one of these,_ that little voice in the back of his mind nags. _This could all be yours if you can get your head out of the goddamn gutter and do what you’re supposed to be doing._

He’s directed down a hallway to a set of opulent golden doors, which open into a ballroom. An honest-to-god ballroom. Bucky feels like he’s fallen into some old movie or something. At any minute, the crowds will part and he’ll catch the eye of some stunning blond across the room, and they’ll gravitate towards each other before flirting over a glass of champagne.

Bucky looks around. It doesn’t take him long to spot Pierce, surrounded by a crowd of sycophants and politicians. He looks perfectly at ease, smiling and shaking hands as he carefully works his way around the room.

Bucky picks up a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and carefully picks a spot in the room to give him the best view. He doesn’t want to wait too long _—_ open calls are first come, first served, but he needs to take a few minutes to get the lay of the land. See who else is in here and figure out an approach.

He scans the room, making a note of other party-goers. No one really stands out to him, but assassins are generally trained to blend in, and he has no idea who any of the New York City elites are.

A flash of red hair catches his eye, and he turns, suddenly alert. _That’s not—_

No, it can’t be.

He moves a little bit, working his way around the room until he can get closer to the corner. But there’s no red hair over here, just a group of younger kids who all look vaguely uncomfortable to be here. Bucky smirks a little, then turns, eyes searching the room.

Weird. For a moment he’d thought he’d seen that girl from the coffee shop, the one Barton had called ‘Red.’ But there’s no one here, and he doesn’t see anyone else with that shade of striking red hair.

Bucky looks for a moment longer, then chalks it up to his mind playing tricks and goes back to his previous plan. It takes him another moment to locate Pierce, who’s still working his way through a crowd of people. Bucky empties his champagne glass, then grabs a second from a passing waiter. Pierce doesn’t look like he’s holding a drink, maybe Bucky can get him to take one _—_

The crowds shift slightly, people on the outer edges drifting to other pursuits, and Bucky’s plans come to a screeching halt as he looks across the room. His breath catches in his throat and a short noise of surprise escapes him, loud enough to prompt a nearby partygoer to ask if he’s alright.

He doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the crowd of people.

Because there’s Pierce, smiling and shaking someone’s hand.

And on the other end of that handshake is Clint. Fucking. Barton.

* * *

It’s easy enough to find Pierce, really. All Clint has to do is follow the sounds of ass-kissing. He snakes his way through the crowd in the ballroom, snagging a champagne glass as he goes, and gets on the outer edges of it. If he can get close enough to _—_

“Clint?”

Clint turns to see Ethan _—_ Edwin _—_ _what the fuck is his name_ _—_ standing behind him, a glass clutched in his overly large hand. He looks just as out of place as Clint feels, shuffling nervously as he attempts a smile. “It is you,” he says. “I was wondering.”

“Oh,” Clint says, trying to drum up some enthusiasm. “Uh...” He tries a guess. “Eddie, right? What are you doing here?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, looking slightly crestfallen. “That’s me. Um...I’m here reporting. I work for the Globe, remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” Clint looks over his shoulder at Pierce. “Cool. Well, good to see you and all.”

Eddie looks even more disappointed, and Clint feels a little trickle of guilt. He’s a nice enough guy _—_ sweet, funny, fantastic in bed. He deserves better than Clint’s half-assed attempts at flirting.

“Sorry,” Clint says, facing him. “I’m just a little distracted. I was hoping to meet Pierce.”

“You don’t want to meet him,” says another voice. A tall guy steps up to them, spiked black hair gelled to high heaven, and Clint has to actively stop himself from laughing at the guy’s outfit _—_ obscenely tight black jeans and a tuxedo t-shirt, paired with a leather jacket. He’s got snake bites in his lip, an assortment of studded necklaces, and a skull ring on both middle fingers. It’s a very carefully cultured punk rock kind of look. Probably a little overdone, but it honestly looks good on him.

“Hi,” Eddie says, eyes wide. “You, uh. You’re Vic, right? Pierce’s son?”

“You can call me Venom,” Vic says. He throws up a rock hand and sticks his tongue out. Eddie’s eyes get wider, although Clint can kind of see why. Venom’s tongue is _split_ , right down the middle, and as they both stare at it, he twists both ends back and forth in a snakelike motion, then closes his mouth and grins at them. It’s all a little ridiculous, really, but it’s also kind of hot, and Clint wants to know what that would feel like on his dick _—_

He glances at Eddie, who looks both a little scared and completely enthralled, and hides a laugh. “This is Eddie,” he says, nudging the other man. Eddie startles a bit and holds out his hand. “He’s a big shot reporter over at the Globe.”

“Eddie, huh?” Venom shakes it, his grin turning a little more hungry. “What’s a nice guy like you doing at a shit party like this?”

“I’m...reporting,” Eddie says faintly, sounding more like he doesn’t know what he’s doing there at all. He’s still staring at Venom, and Clint has to take a sip of champagne before he starts laughing.

“So why don’t we want to meet your dad?” he asks. “Just curious.”

“He’s an asshole,” Venom says, eyes still on Eddie. “A massive, shitty asshole. He’s just the fucking worst.”

“Shame,” Clint says. “Well, tell you what. I’ll take one for the team and meet him, and you can take my friend over here to get a drink. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds _perfect_ ,” Venom says. “What do you say, pretty boy?”

Eddie blinks a couple times, then nods frantically, his expression still a little stunned. “Yeah,” he stammers, and shoves the champagne glass in his hand at Clint. “Sounds good _—_ let’s go _—_ great _—_ ”

Venom tips his head back with a laugh and throws his arm around Eddie. “Oh, you and I are gonna have _so_ much fun,” he purrs, and pulls Eddie away. Clint grins and finishes his drink, then drops both on a nearby platter and works his way into the crowd around Pierce.

He finally manages to get close, cutting in front of some politician he vaguely recognizes. “Hi,” he says, offering a hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Pierce. I’m Carl Brackton.”

“Mr. Brackton,” Pierce says, shaking it. “Pleasure’s all mine.” He smiles, all charm and schmooze, and yeah, Clint can see why Venom doesn’t like him. It’s so fake. The persona, the white teeth, the careful way he’s holding himself. It makes Clint want to hurl. “I don’t believe we’ve met?”

“We haven’t,” Clint says. “I recently moved here. I’m a museum curator, on loan to the Met.”

“Oh? How’s that going?”

“Great.” Clint turns up his own charm, parroting Barnes’s speech from last night. Easy enough, really. He’s always had a good memory, and the image of Barnes talking excitedly about the Met is imprinted in his mind, bright and clear like a movie. Clint focuses on that and does his best to not think about what happened after.

“Sounds like you’re doing well,” Pierce says. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Clint lies. “I hear you’ve got a hell of a wine cellar.”

Pierce’s eyes light up. “Is that so?”

“Oh, yes.” Clint leans forward like they’re old friends, lowers his voice and flashes a smile. “I’d love a tour, if you’re willing. It’s been a long time since I had a good wine. My last job was in Italy, near the Marchesi di Barolo, and there’s nothing that really compares with that, you know?”

Clint crosses his fingers that he pronounced that correctly. He has no idea what the Marchesi di Barolo is, only that it had come up in his search for ‘fancy wineries in Italy.’ He figured it would be enough to get Pierce’s attention.

Pierce looks even more excited. “Barolo is a lovely place,” he agrees. “I’ve been there, but not in many years.” He looks around, then pulls Clint closer. “I’d be more than happy to give you a tour,” he murmurs. “If you’ll meet me out in the hallway, I’ll extract myself from this and be there shortly.”

“Sounds great,” Clint says, and smiles at him. _Gotcha_.

He makes his way out into the hall, and a few minutes later, Pierce joins him. “I have an extensive collection from Italy. My father owned his own winery there, many years ago, and we would spend the summers there as children.”

“I love Italy,” Clint says honestly. He’s only been a few times, all of them for murdery reasons, but he still enjoyed every second of it. Although his idea of a good time is probably way different than Pierce’s.

“Have you ever spent time in France? Château de Berne is a lovely place to visit as well. Their selection of reds is marvelous.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been there. Went a few years ago,” Clint lies. “Great place. Fantastic reds. Italy’s still my favorite, though.”

“Mine as well,” Pierce says. He leads Clint down another hallway, then down a short set of stairs. “Welcome to my favorite place in the house,” he says, and pushes open the door.

* * *

It takes Bucky a _long_ time to get his brain back online after seeing Barton. Like, an embarrassingly long time. Long enough that someone actually grabs his arm and asks if he’s okay.

“Fine,” he says, pulling away. “I’m fine. Don’t touch me.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off Barton. He’s not entirely sure he’s ever going to be able to look at anything else ever again. Barton looks _so fucking good_ in a tuxedo, way better than Bucky even pictured, and he just _—_

He wants _—_

He wants to touch, dammit. He wants to pin Barton against a wall and kiss him and get his hands all over that tuxedo and just fucking _wreck_ him _—_

Except he’s not into that kind of thing.

He’s _not_.

Bucky swallows hard and watches Barton nod at something Pierce says, then casually makes his way out a side door. Little alarm bells start going off in his head, intensifying a moment later when Pierce starts to slowly extract himself from the crowd as well, glancing towards the door Barton used.

“Oh, perfect,” he breathes. This is exactly what he needs. Both targets going off alone? Fucking perfect. He’ll take both of them out at once. He’s got plenty of weapons for it. Then it’s just a matter of confirming death, sending proof, and he’s out free and clear. Can get on a plane and go halfway across the world and find someone without blond hair and stupid pretty blue eyes _—_

“Knock it off,” he orders himself sternly. He sets his glass down and goes out the opposite side of the ballroom, trying to remember the layout of the house. It was in the file, but he’d been a little...distracted at the time.

He finds the wine cellar after a few minutes. The lock is laughably easy to pick, and he slips in without a sound, noting the location of the security cameras.

It’s a damn impressive wine cellar, really. Racks of bottles stretch from floor to ceiling, and go on for multiple rows. Bucky’s not entirely sure how anyone’s supposed to drink this much wine in their entire life, but he’d certainly be willing to make a dent in it. He keeps out of sight of the camera and peruses a couple racks, making notes of labels. Maybe he should steal a couple on his way out _—_ the man’s Cabernet selection is to die for, and just because Bucky _will_ be able to afford them doesn’t mean he _wants_ to.

There’s a clicking noise, and he makes himself scarce, disappearing into the shadows as Barton and Pierce come in. Pierce is prattling on about something, and Bucky glimpses Barton’s bored expression through the racks of wine. It vanishes into interest the moment Piece looks back at him, and Bucky bites back a grin at the sight.

Okay. He’ll get Pierce with the knife first, disable him with a quick stab to the spine. Then Barton next, right in the heart. He’ll try and make that one quick, at least. Barton’s a nice guy, Bucky’s weird feelings aside, and he doesn’t deserve to suffer.

“Now this one,” Pierce says, turning, and Bucky strikes. He steps forward with a quick motion, lunging, knife out, and nails him in the spine, just like he planned.

At the same time, though, Barton’s hand whips up to Pierce’s neck, stabbing something into it. A syringe, it looks like, thick and round, full of a clear liquid _—_

“What the fuck,” Barton says, sounding shocked.

“What the fuck,” Bucky echoes, because seriously, _what the fuck?_

They stare at each other. Barton’s hand comes up to muffle Pierce’s scream, but other than that, he barely seems to notice the writhing man between them.

Bucky’s trying to come up with something to say, but this close all he can really see is that Barton’s eyes are so goddamn blue and there’s a dusting of freckles across his nose and his mouth is _—_

Bucky is moving before he really registers it, his body leaning forward without conscious permission. His mouth crashes against Barton’s in a rough approximation of a kiss, breathless and violent and shocking. Barton makes a short, surprised noise and jerks backwards, stepping fully away from both of them.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he says again. “I _—_ you _—_ seriously, what the fuck!”

And Bucky just stares at him, because...yeah. _What the fuck_ is the right question to ask, and it’s not one that he’s really got an answer for.

“Um,” he says. “Sorry.”

Barton lets out a hysterical little laugh. “ _Sorry?_ That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“I _—_ ”

“What did you do to him?”

Bucky looks down at Pierce, suddenly realizing he’s still holding the guy up. “Oh. Uh. I stabbed him?”

“You stabbed _—_ ” Barton cuts off, rubbing a hand through his hair with a wild gesture. “You _stabbed_ him?”

“I did,” Bucky says, letting the body fall to the side. He flips the knife into his other hand. “And I have to kill you too. I’m sorry.”

Barton blinks. “You have to _what_ now?”

“Kill you,” Bucky says, and lunges forward. He’s fast, he knows, always has been, and he never misses _—_

Barton twists out of the way. It’s like the piano thing all over again, a graceful mix of athleticism that moves him just enough to be safe. He follows the twist with a surprisingly powerful kick, nailing Bucky’s leg hard enough to make him lose his footing. “Hang on a minute,” he says, but Bucky’s already regaining his balance. “I said _wait_ _—_ ”

“I’m sorry for this too,” Bucky says. “You’re a nice guy. It’s not personal.”

He lunges again, and Barton’s face twists into a dark glare. With a low grunt, he catches Bucky’s arm and shoves it upward, ramming his knee up into Bucky’s gut. Bucky stumbles backwards, and Barton presses the advantage, pushing him back hard into the door.

They exchange a flurry of evenly-matched blows, Bucky growing more and more puzzled by the second. Not that he hadn’t expected a fight _—_ most people try, especially if he’s finishing a job up close _—_ but they’re never this good. _Never_.

He blocks a punch and grabs Barton’s arm, reversing their positions in a quick move. Barton hisses in pain as his head contacts the door and he goes slack in Bucky’s grip for a second, just long enough for Bucky to free an arm and press the knife to his throat.

“Wouldn’t do that,” Barton says, voice quietly edged with dark mirth. He’s deadly still, but his eyes are gleaming with a familiar look, and his face is flushed from the fight. It’s oddly arousing _—_ or it would be if Bucky was into that sort of thing.

Which he’s not. He’s pretty sure he’s not.

“I’m serious,” Barton says, and Bucky starts to ask why. But then he feels a sharp edge pressing against his stomach, and glances down to see a knife pressed against the fabric of his suit.

“You can,” Barton says, “but I’m fast. I’ll do it. And neither one of us will walk out of here alive.” Bucky looks at the knife a moment longer, then back up to his face. Barton raises an eyebrow, expression smug as hell. “What’s it gonna be?”

Bucky pauses for a moment, then leans forward and kisses him again.

Barton makes another short noise of protest, but with the door at his back and a knife at his throat, he’s got nowhere to go. Bucky distantly feels like a bit of an asshole about that, but also he’s really fucking hard and he’s been thinking about this for hours, and okay maybe he’s a _little_ into _—_

He pulls back with a sharp cry of pain, one hand pressing to his mouth. “Did you just fucking _bite_ me?”

“Yeah,” Barton snaps. “That’s what happens when you kiss people without warning, asshole.”

“I didn’t mean _—_ ” Bucky grits his teeth.

“We need to talk,” Barton says, pressing the knife a little harder into his stomach. “ _Now_.”

“So talk,” Bucky says, not moving.

Barton narrows his eyes, and they glare at each other for a few moments, time stretching out between them.

Then Barton twists an arm free, grabs the back of Bucky’s head, and yanks him forward. He crushes his mouth against Bucky’s, forcing his head back for a better angle as he slides his tongue in, kissing Bucky like he’s never wanted to do anything else in his life.

It’s Bucky’s turn to protest this time, pushing against Barton’s hold. It doesn’t get him anything except a low chuckle and Barton’s fingers gripping tighter, just the right side of painful. He tries again, and Barton pulls back just enough to put a few millimeters of space between them. They’re both breathing hard.

“You’re not a museum curator,” Barton accuses him.

“No.” Bucky shakes his head as much as he can. “But you’re not an archery teacher, so...”

“I am, actually,” Barton says with a grin. “I just also...freelance.”

He lets go of Bucky’s hair and smirks at him. Then he pulls the knife back and raises both his hands. After a moment, Bucky lowers the knife from his throat. He steps back to give Barton a little more space.

“Who do you work for?” Barton asks, raising a hand to his throat. “You’re damn good.”

“The Company,” Bucky says, and Barton’s eyes widen. “You too?”

“Yep.” Barton reaches into his tux, movements slow and obvious, and pulls out a phone. It’s exactly like Bucky’s, right down to the coloring. He flips it in his hand before tucking it back into his pocket. “So. What are the odds of that, huh?”

“I’ll say,” Bucky murmurs. “Did you know they put out a hit on you?”

“I kinda figured,” Barton says. “Given that you just tried to murder me and all.” His mouth splits in a grin. “Karma’s a bitch, though, because you’ve got one too.”

“I _—_ wait, what?”

“I got an offer for you.” Barton crosses his arms. “And it was high, too. Someone really wants you dead.”

“Someone really wants _you_ dead,” Bucky says, and tells him the amount. He’d expected some concern, but Barton just looks elated. “You’re happy about that?”

“I’m worth more than you,” Barton says, and snickers as Bucky scowls at him. “Clearly, I’m the more dangerous one.”

“You are not,” Bucky says. “No fucking way.”

“Beg to differ,” Barton says. “I almost killed you several times this week.”

“Almost,” Bucky says. “Almost doesn’t count.” He conveniently leaves out the _almosts_ that he had and opts for a smirk instead.

Barton makes a face at him, then looks over his shoulder at the body on the floor. “Uh. So. About him.”

Bucky looks. “Oh. Yeah. We should...we should take care of that.” He looks at the syringe still sticking out of Pierce’s neck. “What did you give him?”

“Cyanide compound,” Barton says, stepping around him. “I make it myself. It’s quiet, and quick, and usually has about a fifteen minute window before it works, so I can get away. Looks just like a stroke to the medics.” He snaps a picture of the body with his Phone, then adds a quick message and sends it. “Help me move him.”

“Hey!” Bucky snaps. “That was my score! I severed his spinal cord!”

“You snooze, you lose,” Barton says, tucking the phone back into his pocket. “Open call, Barnes. This one’s mine.” He takes an exaggerated breath through his nose. “Smell that? That’s the scent of me, getting five million dollars richer.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Bucky says, and steps towards him.

“Nah,” Barton says, dodging out of the way. “You’re going to almost kill me. There’s a difference.” He laughs. “Because you’ve been trying, haven’t you? But you haven’t been able to either.”

“You’re an asshole,” Bucky says, and reaches out for him.

Barton dodges his hand again. “So slow,” he says, voice teasing. “I thought you were dangerous?”

Bucky glares at him. “Stop it,” he says. “Shut the fuck up and help me move this fucking body out of the way.”

Barton is still grinning, but he grabs Pierce’s arms, and between the two of them, they manage to maneuver the body over into the back of the room, out of sight of the door. “There,” he says, dropping him down. “That was fun.”

“You have an odd definition of fun,” Bucky tells him. “You just killed a man, and almost died yourself, and you think this is fun?”

“You don’t?” Barton shrugs. He’s still overly pleased with himself. “There’s a reason I’m not an accountant, you know? No adrenaline to it.” He raises his eyebrows at Bucky. “You’re telling me you don’t get a little bit of a rush when someone’s got a knife to you?”

He does, actually, but he’s not going to discuss it with Barton. Because he’s pretty sure that’s only going to lead down roads he’s not real sure on, and he’s already kissed the guy and gotten it out of his system, so he should definitely leave before anything else happens.

“Wonder what’s back here?” Barton says, turning to look at the wall behind him.

“It’s just a wall.” Bucky tucks his knife back into his tux.

“Hinges,” Barton says, pointing, and sure enough, there’s hinges set into the wall. They’re barely visible, Bucky can only see them if he squints. “Five bucks says it’s a secret door.”

“Like you need money, Mr. Five Million Dollars.”

Barton snorts out a laugh and pushes against the wall. “See if there’s a lever anywhere, will you?”

“We need to go,” Bucky says, examining the nearby wine racks. “We just killed someone.”

“I just wanna see it.” There’s a clicking noise, and then he lets out a little whoop of victory. “Aw, yeah!”

“Quiet,” Bucky hisses, but he follows Barton through the door, closing it behind them. It’s a decent sized room, almost like a conference room. There’s another wine rack in the corner, and a long bar top next to it. Several empty wine glasses are artfully arranged on it. There’s also a giant table in the middle of the room, with a couple of chairs scattered around it.

Barton makes a small appreciative sound and rubs his hand over the table. “That’s some high quality shit right there.” He gestures to the shelf. “Any good wines in there?”

“What makes you think I know?” Bucky asks, drifting over to it.

“You look like a wine guy.” Barton flicks him a little salute and walks the perimeter of the room. “Hey, there’s another door over here.”

“Where’s it go?”

Barton opens it like the other one, and pokes his head through. “Tunnel? I don’t know. It’s long, I can’t see the other end.” He looks back at Bucky. “So? Wine?”

“We can’t steal a dead guy’s wine,” Bucky argues, ignoring the little voice that reminds him he was planning to do exactly that.

“What, so murder’s okay, but you draw the line at wine drinking?” Barton smirks. “Got some fucked up morals there, buddy.” He sits on the table, letting his legs dangle. Bucky drinks in the sight of him, eyes dragging over the tuxedo, and the way Barton’s pants hug his legs, fabric stretched tight across his hips. It’s a hell of a sight, really.

Or it would be. If he was into that.

_You fucking kissed him, Barnes. Twice. You’re into it._

“We’re not friends,” he finally says, shaking off the thought and turning away to open the bottle. “I’m still going to kill you.”

“See, you say that, but now you’re pouring me wine.”

“Maybe I’m poisoning it,” Bucky shoots back, wondering why he isn’t doing exactly that.

“Mmhmm.” Barton holds out a hand, and Bucky reluctantly gives him a glass. He swirls it around, then tips his head back and drinks half of it in one go.

Bucky stares at him, somewhat appalled. “You’re supposed to _sip_ it,” he finally says. “It’s _—_ it’s wine, it’s not a fucking shot _—_ ”

“Told you you were a wine guy,” Barton says. He winks at Bucky, all flirty again, and Bucky _—_

Well, Bucky doesn’t know what to _do_ with that. With the flirting, and the winking, and the way Barton’s eyes are moving all over him, looking at Bucky like he wants to take a bite out of him or something.

“Hey,” Barton says suddenly. “Why’d you leave last night?”

“Huh?”

“You left. You took off and left. It was kind of rude, really.” Barton tilts his head, blue eyes piercing right through Bucky. “Did you try to kill me with something?”

Bucky sips his wine. “I meant to. And then, I uh...got distracted.”

“Really? With what?”

_You and your fucking shirt and how much I couldn’t stop thinking about taking it off of you._ “Nothing.”

Barton’s eyes flare with amusement. “Nothing, huh?” He moves his legs a little wider. “Not a single thing?”

“Stop it,” Bucky says, and turns away to grab the bottle. “More wine?”

“Nah. Tastes like shit.”

“Would be better if you drank it slow.”

“I’m sure it would.” He winks again. “But I’ve never been one to take things slow.”

Bucky pours him more anyway, more to have something to focus on than anything else. Except it doesn’t really work, because Barton chooses that exact moment to reach up and undo his bowtie, tugging it free with one hand. He drops it on the floor in a single, deliberate motion before reaching to pull off his jacket.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Bucky says, staring at him.

Barton grins. “Wine,” is all he says, and Bucky suddenly realizes he’s about two seconds from overfilling the glass. He stops pouring immediately, and the grin gets wider. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to...distract you.”

“You’re not distracting,” Bucky says. “I’m not _—_ I don’t give a shit what you do.”

“Yeah?” He pulls off his jacket and drops it on the floor on top of the bowtie. “Guess you won’t mind if I get comfortable, then.”

“What _—_ ” Bucky reaches out and picks it up, shoving it back at him. “Stop it, put your fucking clothes back on.”

“You just said you don’t care what I do.” Barton pushes the jacket aside and reaches for the buttons on his shirt. “Giving me some real mixed signals here, Barnes.”

“I’m not _—_ ” Bucky bites off the rest of his protest. “We killed a target, Barton. We need to leave!”

“We’ll get there.” He’s halfway through the buttons now. “Pierce told his people not to come after him for at least an hour. It’s been barely fifteen minutes. We’ve got plenty of time.”

“And you think getting undressed is a good use of that time?”

“Getting undressed is just the first part.” Barton pops the last button and shrugs the shirt off. He says something else, after that, but Bucky doesn’t really register it. His eyes are glued to Barton’s shifting muscles as he pulls the shirt off, then drops it on top of the slowly growing pile of clothes.

Abs. Shoulders. Miles and miles of tanned skin and toned lines of muscles. There’s a dead man outside the door, and all Bucky can think about is how much he wants to lick every single inch of skin on display. How much he wants to touch it, see if it’s as warm and soft as it looks, see if the sudden electricity in the air between them can be felt if he puts his hand on _—_

“Yeah,” Barton drawls, looking smug as hell as he leans back on his hands. “Not distracting at _all_.”

Bucky clears his throat and finally drags his eyes off of Barton’s abs. “Your suit’s gonna get wrinkled,” he murmurs, the words barely audible.

Barton snorts. “Who gives a shit?”

Bucky doesn’t really have a response to that, but it turns out he doesn’t need one. Barton just smirks again, wraps his hand in Bucky’s shirt, and yanks him forward into a searing kiss.

* * *

As soon as they make contact, all the stiffness just absolutely melts out of Barnes, draining off him like water. His hands settle right around Clint’s waist, fingers just barely on his bare skin. Clint grins into the kiss and wraps his legs around Barnes, pulling him even closer.

“Watch the wine,” he says, as Barnes bumps the table hard enough to slosh it out of the cup.

“Fuck the wine,” Barnes mutters, sliding his hands up Clint’s back.

“Rather you fuck me,” Clint tells him, and snickers a little as Barnes gets a little deer-in-the-headlights look about him. “Problem with that?”

Barnes looks unsure. “I’m not really _—_ I’m not into that?”

“Are you sure about that?” Clint asks, reaching forward. His hand rubs against Barnes’s dick where it’s straining against the fabric. “I mean, it’s cool if you’re not, but it just seems like _—_ ”

“I don’t know,” Barnes says. “I don’t _—_ I haven’t _—_ not with a guy _—_ ” He looks down at Clint’s hand. “I don’t really know what to do?”

“It’s okay,” Clint assures him. “I do.” He reaches for Barnes’s bow tie, pulling it out with practiced fingers. “I have _lots_ of experience.”

Barnes still looks slightly terrified, so Clint just tugs him into another kiss. He tries to make this one a little less intimidating, a little softer. Barnes moans into it, fingers curling on Clint’s back until his fingernails dig in.

“You’re overdressed,” Clint tells him, breaking it off. He reaches for Barnes’s bow tie, pulling it out with practiced fingers. “I feel a little out of place.”

“You’ve never felt out of place in your life,” Barnes snorts, and Clint pauses.

“Sure I have,” he says. “I’m just really good at looking otherwise.”

“You’re really good looking,” Barnes agrees, then suddenly looks like he wants to die. Clint bursts out laughing even as his hands reach for the jacket.

“You’re sweet,” he tells Barnes, and shoves the jacket off his shoulders. He twists a little and drapes it over a chair, then looks up at Barnes’s face. “What?”

“Nothing,” Barnes says after a moment. “I just...that was nice of you.”

Clint shrugs and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He’s trying to take it slow, keep it controlled, but he’s just dying to get Barnes naked, see all of him up close and in person rather than through a rifle scope and a window.

He feels a flash of shame about that, and hesitates a little bit on the next button. Barnes makes a questioning noise. “Problem?”

“No,” Clint says, opening it. “I, um...” He bites his lip, then blurts out in a rush, “Imighthavewatchedyoujerkofftheothernight.”

Barnes blinks. “You _what?_ ”

“I was gonna kill you!” Clint says defensively. “You left the shades open _—_ smart move, by the way, you kind of deserved to be shot for that one _—_ ”

“Oh my god,” Barnes says, and he buries his face in his hands. “You _watched_ that?”

“You left the shades open! What was I supposed to do?”

“Not watch a guy jerk off! What the fuck?”

“I _—_ ” Clint opens the last button and Barnes’s shirt falls open. “It was really hot?”

Barnes drops his hands, looking at Clint in disbelief “It _what?_ ”

“It was hot,” Clint says, reaching up to push his shirt off. “I liked watching.” He lays the shirt nicely on top of the jacket, then turns back. “What were you thinking about?”

Barnes turns bright red. “Nothing,” he squeaks out, and Clint snickers even as he reaches out, dragging his fingertips all over the _masterpiece_ in front of him. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

“Suuuure you weren’t,” Clint says. “You looked pretty into it.” He lets his hand trail down the metal arm. “Fucking love this, by the way. It’s gorgeous.”

“Shark attack,” Barnes says, suddenly dead serious. “Two years ago.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Barnes’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Tiger shark. Very vicious.”

“I’m sure,” Clint drawls, rubbing his thumb over the metal plates. He pulls the glove off Barnes’s hand and adds it to the rest. “Where was this vicious attack?”

“Italy?”

Clint grins. “Tiger sharks live in the Caribbean,” he says. “Try again.”

Barnes shakes his head. “Gonna stick with that,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes that tells Clint not to ask again.

“Alright,” he says. “If you don’t wanna talk about it, fine.” He cups Barnes over his pants, watches him bite off a moan. “Tell me what you were thinking about the other night.” He raises an eyebrow. “Please don’t say sharks.”

Barnes laughs even as his hips rock into the touch, seeking the pressure of Clint’s hand. “I _—_ _mmm_ _—_ I was thinking _—_ ”

“Tell me,” Clint murmurs, leaning forward. He dips his head and drags his tongue over the pierced nipple, sucking it into his mouth as Barnes jolts forward.

“ _Fuck_ _—_ ” His hand comes up to Clint’s hair, metal fingers winding into the strands, and Clint moans.

“Tell me,” he says again, scraping his teeth over the piercing. “I’m interested.”

“You,” Barnes gasps out. “You, I was thinking about you, and how you looked in the sauna, and I _—_ ”

Clint sits back sharply. “You saw me in the _sauna?_ ”

“I didn’t mean to,” Barnes says quickly. “I was just trying to have a nice day, and then you were right there, and you were all tan and naked and there were _freckles_ _—_ ” He cuts off.

Clint raises an eyebrow. “You liked that, huh?”

“I only looked for a second,” Barnes says, even more quickly. “Just a little _—_ I’m not into that _—_ ”

“You jerked off to it later,” Clint says, unable to hide his delight. “Hate to break it to you, but I think you _are_ into it.”

Barnes mumbles something incomprehensible and shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“I don’t care,” Clint says, gently rolling the piercing between his fingers. Barnes’s hips stutter against his hand. “I still think it’s hot. I think it’s hot that you saw me, and that you were getting off to it later because you couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“Sorry about the door, too,” Barnes adds.

“The door?” Clint pauses. Then a slow grin blooms over his face. “Oh, my god. Did you try to kill me by locking me in a sauna?”

He bites his lip. “Just a little bit?”

Clint starts laughing. He can’t help it. It’s too goddamn funny. “Oh, that’s just _awful_. Did you really think that was going to kill me? Am I your first contract or something?”

“I’m a professional!” Barnes snaps. “I’m just...I was...”

“Distracted,” Clint finishes, still laughing. “Fair. I’m very distracting.” He tilts his head. “Tell me more. You were thinking about me? What were you imagining?”

Barnes mutters something again. His face is still red. “Your fingers,” he finally says. “I was thinking about what it would be like to have your fingers in me, and I _—_ ”

“You want that?” Clint asks, palming over his abs. “I can do that.”

Barnes shudders under his touch. “Maybe?”

“We can do that,” Clint says, gently scraping his fingernails over Barnes’s skin. “Except for me to do that, your pants have to come off.”

“You first,” Barnes says, making the words sound like a challenge.

“Fair enough,” Clint says, and hops off the table.

* * *

Barton kicks off his shoes and drops his pants without a hint of shame. Bucky blinks in surprise. “Um...do you not wear underwear?”

“Only if I have to.” He adds them onto the pile, then hops on alternating feet to pull his socks off. It should be awkward, but he somehow manages to make it good, and that’s just a little bit unfair.

“This is a _black tie_ party _—_ ”

Barton shrugs. “I wore a black tie.”

“That’s not _—_ ” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. “Point being, if there was ever a time to wear underwear _—_ ”

“There’s never a time for that,” Barton says, and spreads his arms out. “There you go. Look all you want.”

Bucky’s pretty sure his face is going to be red for the rest of time. “I don’t _—_ ”

“Yeah you do,” Barton says easily. “It’s okay. You wanna touch? Here.” He grabs Bucky’s metal hand and presses it against his chest. “Permission engaged or whatever. I _like_ being touched. If you wanna lay me down on that table and get your hands all over me, I will not complain.”

“It’s a nice table,” Bucky says weakly. “We shouldn’t _—_ we shouldn’t defile it _—_ ”

Barton bursts out laughing. “We should _totally_ defile it,” he says. “This Pierce guy was an asshole, remember? You probably got the same information I did. The guy kicked puppies and robbed the poor in his spare time or whatever. He was a total dick.”

“And we already killed him for it, so _—_ ”

“So we should drink his wine, fuck on his table, then get the hell out of here.” Barton raises an eyebrow. “Step one down. Who’s up for the rest?”

“I _—_ ” Bucky’s running out of excuses, and slowly realizing that he doesn’t really want to try and find more. There’s nothing stopping him from walking out of here. They’re not partners. He doesn’t have to make sure Barton gets out too. The guy’s just as good as Bucky is. He’ll manage.

And yet.

Bucky’s hand drifts down Barton’s chest, just barely tracing over the skin. Barton closes his eyes, shivering under the light touch. It’s fantastically arousing, that simple little motion, and Bucky has to bite back a whimper of his own.

Goddamnit. He _is_ into this.

Bucky swallows hard, then nods in a sharp motion. “Get on the table,” he says, trying to inject as much authority into his voice as he can. “Now.”

Barton blinks, then scrambles onto the table, laying himself flat. It’s a little funny, how fast he moves, and Bucky’s not sure if that’s because he wants this or if it’s because Bucky told him to. He files the information away for later and crawls onto the table himself, moving until his knees are straddling Barton.

“You’re still wearing pants,” Barton points out.

“Observant little shit, aren’t you?” Bucky puts his hands on Barton’s chest. “You said I could touch, so I’m gonna touch.”

“Just touch?”

“For now.” Bucky trails his hands down the taut muscles, humming appreciatively. “Just want to see what I’m getting myself into it.”

Barton folds his arms behind his head. “Trouble and mayhem, mostly,” he says, a cocky smile on his face. “But you’ll like it.”

“I figured,” Bucky mutters, and keeps moving his hands. It’s so different from the girls he’s used to, but he likes it. Likes the hardened lines of muscles. He rubs over Barton’s nipples, watches as he inhales sharply at the contact. “Like that?”

“Definitely,” Barton says. “You can keep doing that. You can also go lower.”

“I’ll go where I want,” Bucky says, trying for that note of authority again, and Barton goes still underneath him. Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Oh, you like that too?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barton says, his voice a little breathier.

“I think you do like it,” Bucky says slowly. “Being told what to do.”

“What gives you that impression?”

Bucky studies him for a moment, then says, “Put your arms above your head.”

He throws as much command as he can into the words, making them hard and unrelenting, and Barton’s hands immediately move into position, quick enough that his head thunks onto the table with a low sound.

“Fuck,” Barton says, and Bucky grins wide enough to make his face hurt.

“Called it,” he says, unable to hide the smugness. “You still want to pretend otherwise?”

“Depends.” Barton bucks his hips up, and the contact is enough to make Bucky gasp a little. “You gonna do something interesting?”

“I’m doing something interesting,” Bucky says, and moves, giving himself more room to touch. “I’m exploring.”

He traces his fingers along the curve of Barton’s hip, scraping his nails over the sensitive skin. Barton shivers again, eyes on the ceiling. “Taking an awfully long time,” he says.

Bucky flicks his hip, and Barton lets out a hilarious little shriek, squirming away for a moment. “I’ll go where I want,” Bucky tells him again. “You should just be patient.”

“You were the one who was worried about time.” He settles back into position. His arms still haven’t moved, Bucky notes with some satisfaction. “I’m just saying.”

“We’ve got the time,” Bucky murmurs. “You just want me to touch this.” He nudges Barton’s dick, already hard and leaking, and watches as Barton twitches at the contact. “Right?”

“Sure would be nice,” Barton says, picking his head up a little.

Bucky looks at him for a second, then slides off the table and grabs Barton’s jacket from the floor. He throws it at him. “Here. Put that under your head.”

“Gonna get really wrinkled,” Barton says, doing it anyway.

“Who gives a shit?”

Barton laughs. “Fair.”

Bucky climbs back onto the table, then pauses, eyes catching on a hint of metal just barely visible between Barton’s spread legs. “Is that...do you have...is that a _piercing?_ ”

“Yeah,” Barton says, a shameless grin spreading over his face. “Wanna see it?” He pulls his knees up towards his chest, tilting his hips towards Bucky, then winces. “Fuck, this table is _not_ comfortable _—_ ”

Bucky’s not listening. His eyes are glued to the piercing, set in the sensitive skin just above his hole. It’s a horizontal bar, fairly small, but shiny and silver and very eye-catching. Bucky stares at it for a second, then looks at Barton. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Hurt to get done. Worth it, though.” He winks. “Makes the whole experience ten times better. Highly recommend.”

“I’m _never_ doing that,” Bucky says firmly, his hand reaching forward. “Can I touch it?”

“Touch whatever you want,” Barton says, setting his feet back on the table. He keeps his knees bent.

Bucky clears his throat, then carefully reaches out with his right hand. He gently traces around the bar, noting the slight noise Barton makes as he brushes against it.

“It’s okay,” Barton assures him. “Trust me, I li _—_ _ahhhhfuck_ _—_ “

Bucky raises an eyebrow as Barton practically arches off the table, hands clenching into fists. “You were saying something?”

“I like _—_ ” He cuts off again as Bucky toys with it more, his feet slipping on the wood. “Jesus _motherfucking_ _—_ ”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, pressing against it, watching with rapt attention as Barton writhes under his touch. “Didn’t mean to...distract you.”

“You’re an _asshole_ ,” Barton pants.

“You call me names, I’m gonna stop.”

“No don’t _stop_ _—_ ” He slams his hands down onto the table by his hips, fingers clenching into fists as he rocks his hips into Bucky’s hand.

“I told you to put those over your head,” Bucky says, pulling his hand away.

Barton whines at the loss, grinding down against nothing. “Fucking _hell_ ,” he finally manages, dragging in a deep breath before sliding his arms back up over his head. Bucky suddenly wonders what he would look like with them tied there, immobilized and helpless against Bucky’s wandering touch.

The thought is too much, and he grabs at his belt, fingers scrabbling over the buckle. He’s never been so turned on in his entire _life_ , and he’s suddenly desperate to get a hand around himself, or maybe Barton’s hand, or maybe his mouth, or maybe _—_

“Let me,” Barton says, sounding a little desperate, eyes on Bucky’s hands. “Let me do it, _please_.”

Bucky nods once, and Barton sits up _—_ _abs_ , Bucky thinks wildly, watching the muscles contract _—_ and reaches for it, pulling it open. He makes short work of the button and zipper, then works them down over Bucky’s thighs. “Jesus,” he mutters, hands squeezing the muscles there. “If you want to finish the contract, you can just smother me with these and I’ll die happy.”

Bucky looks down at him, contemplating, and Barton narrows his eyes. “You just thought about it, didn’t you?”

Bucky starts to laugh, but then Barton leans forward and mouths at his cock over his briefs, and Bucky’s train of thought just vanishes into nothing. “Oh god,” he mutters, putting a hand on Barton’s head. “Fuck.”

“See?” Barton asks, grinning up at him. “Underwear. Gets in the way.” He sticks his tongue out, obscene as hell, and drags it up the hard line of Bucky’s cock. “Such a shame, because I kinda wanna _—_ ”

“So get them out of the way,” Bucky grits out, fingers tightening in Barton’s hair.

“I’ll do what I want,” Barton tells him, and Bucky pulls his head back sharply. His breath catches, and his fingers dig into Bucky’s leg. “Uh _—_ ”

“You’ll do what I fucking tell you to do,” Bucky says, lowering his voice, and Barton swallows hard, his throat bobbing in the dim light. “Right?”

Barton swallows again, then nods against Bucky’s hold, a short whimper escaping him. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Whatever you want.”

Bucky flashes him a dirty smile. “Good boy,” he says, and Barton whimpers again, eyes closing. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He’s so into this. Holy shit, he’s _so_ into this. Barton is practically boneless in his grip, eyes half-lidded and staring up at him with something akin to adoration, and Bucky just _—_ well, he has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s so into this he thinks he might actually die a little. “Get to it,” he says, tugging Barton’s hair. Barton immediately pulls the briefs out of the way, then leans forward and wraps his lips around Bucky’s cock.

“Oh fuck,” Bucky mutters, rocking into the sensation. It’s warm, and wet, and fucking perfect, everything he was imagining the other night, except a million times better. Barton’s fingers are still gripping his legs, effortlessly propping himself in a half sit-up as he swallows around Bucky, flicking his eyes up to watch the reaction.

Bucky loosens his grip a little, and Barton pauses, then pulls back in a sinfully slow movement. “You can keep doing that,” he says, teasing the head of Bucky’s cock with his tongue. “I like it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bucky says, and Barton snorts out a laugh.

“You’re not going to,” he says. “And even if you do, I can get you off.” He grins. “While also actually getting you off.”

Bucky doesn’t want to laugh, because that joke doesn’t fucking deserve it, but he does anyway. Barton looks overly pleased with himself and sucks Bucky back into his mouth. He doesn’t stop, taking Bucky all the way in without even a gag, and Jesus _fuck_ this is how Bucky’s going to die. This is it.

_Goddamn good way to go,_ he thinks, dragging in a breath. “Christ,” he mutters, hips jerking forward. “What the actual fuck _—_ ”

“I’m very talented,” Barton says as he pulls off, scooting himself in a slightly more comfortable position. He mouths his way down Bucky’s dick, sucking at his balls before adding, “You still want my fingers in you?”

“Do I _—_ ” Bucky pauses at that, because he kind of does, but he’s still a little unsure about the whole process. He’d tried it the other night and it was okay, but nothing really to write home about. “Yes?”

Barton flicks his eyes up. “You sure?”

“I don’t know?” He tries to think, a process made more difficult by the things Barton is doing with his tongue. “I’m not really _—_ ”

“If you tell me you’re not into this, I’m gonna stop,” Barton says, his tone teasing. “Besides, you looked like you liked it the other night.”

Which just makes Bucky even hotter, remembering that Barton had watched him do all that. He swallows back his uncertainties and nods. “Okay.”

“You good here?” Barton asks. “We can take this to the floor if your knees _—_ ”

“We’re defiling the table,” Bucky interrupts. “I’m fine.”

“Great,” Barton says, and he drops back down to the table, reaching for his jacket. “Hang on, I got some shit in here, gimme a second.”

He emerges with a clear little bottle, and Bucky’s jaw just about hits the ground. “You just...you just fucking carry lube around with you?”

“You’d be surprised how useful it can be,” Barton says with a laugh. “For things other than defiling tables.”

“But...” Bucky doesn’t have words for this shit. Every goddamn time he thinks he’s got Barton pegged, the guy turns around and surprises him again. “But what else were you doing that you needed...?”

“Classified,” Barton says, and pours some on his fingers.

“You’re a fucking brat,” Bucky tells him, and Barton laughs.

“Observant little shit, aren’t you?” he asks, resuming his earlier position. Bucky reaches forward and grabs his hair again, using his left hand this time.

“You _—_ ” He stops as Barton leans forward, dragging his tongue over Bucky’s cock. “Fu-uck.”

Barton winks at him, then reaches forward and slides his slick fingers right over Bucky’s hole, gently rubbing around it. “Be nice to me,” he says, pressing in with one finger. “I’m just giving you what you wanted.”

“You’re being a _—_ ” Bucky’s words vanish into the most obscene moan he’s ever made in his entire life, and he shudders a little, closing his eyes.

“Goddamn that’s hot,” Barton breathes. “Do that again, _fuck_.”

Bucky shakes his head, thoroughly embarrassed, although he’s not really sure what’s left to be embarrassed about at this point.

“Fine.” Barton gets his finger a little deeper, then slides it back out. Bucky bites his lip hard enough to draw blood in an effort to stay silent. “I’ll just _make_ you do it.”

“Like to see you fucking try,” Bucky says, then somewhat regrets it immediately. Barton’s eyes shine with mirth, and he gives Bucky a _just-you-fucking-wait_ look.

He keeps working his finger in and out, sucking Bucky’s cock the whole time. Then he adds a second, easing it in alongside the first. “That’s it,” he murmurs, eyes on Bucky’s face. “See? Feels good.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, trying for flippant and not quite getting there. It does feel good, way better than when he’d tried it himself, but he sure as fuck doesn’t want to admit it. “It’s _—_ it’s okay.”

“Give me a sec,” Barton says. “I’m just getting you warmed up.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says, unconsciously rocking back into his hand. “Big talk.”

Barton narrows his eyes, then twists his fingers a little and oh _—_

_Oh—_

The noise Bucky makes in response to that feels dragged out of his fucking _bones_ , deep and shameless and loud as hell. He almost falls over as the sensation sparks up his spine, setting off fireworks in his brain, and he gasps in a shuddering breath. “What the fucking _—_ ”

“Told you,” Barton says, all smirking and cocky again. “Don’t doubt me, I know my shit.”

“Hnngh,” Bucky says, which is about all he can manage as Barton does it again. “Mother _fuck_ _—_ ”

“But if you still think I’m just talk _—_ ”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky hisses, rocking back into his hand. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a goddamn brat.”

“I am,” Barton agrees. “Should just bend me over this table and fuck it out of me, or else it’ll probably get worse.”

Bucky looks down at him, pausing a moment as he considers the words. “Is that what you want?”

“If you’re comfortable with it,” Barton says, cocky smile vanishing for a second in favor of seriousness. “I’m cool with just doing this too. I know this is new to you, I don’t want to push you into anything.”

Bucky thinks about it, imagining Barton bent over the table while Bucky fucks the breath out of him, finally wiping that goddamn attitude off his face. He remembers the way he’d wanted to wreck Barton upstairs, wanted to pin him against a wall and _—_

“Yeah,” he’s saying before he even realizes it. “Yes, yes, I want that.”

“Awesome,” Barton says, face lighting up with excitement. “Want me to finish this here, or _—_ ”

“No.” Bucky reluctantly shakes his head. “That’ll take too long.”

“Oh yeah,” Barton says, looking over at the door. “Right. Murder.” He pats Bucky’s leg and slowly slides his fingers out. Bucky just barely holds back a whine at the sudden emptiness. Barton snickers. “Come on,” he says. “Let me up.”

“Are you telling me what to do?” Bucky asks, moving anyway. “Because I’m pretty sure we established that’s not how this goes.”

“I’m just making suggestions,” Barton says innocently. He sits up a little more and looks at his lubed-up fingers, then wipes them off on his leg with a shrug.

Bucky gets off the table, wincing as his knees protest. He’s still a little sore from the motorcycle accident _—_

“Hey,” he says, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Did you fuck with my motorcycle?”

Barton’s head snaps up, and there’s a guilty expression on his face. “Just a little bit?”

“Oh, you _—_ ” Bucky’s metal hand clenches into a fist. “You fucking _asshole_ , I liked that bike!”

“I am very sorry,” Barton says, and he actually looks it. “It was a nice bike. I’ll buy you another one.”

“What did you do to it?”

“Cut the brake lines.”

Bucky rubs his forehead. “I hate you,” he says, but he can’t quite muster up the heat to make the words sting.

“I really do feel bad about that one,” Barton says. “I like motorcycles. Broke my heart a little to do that. You handled it nicely, though. That dive sideways?” He flashes a double thumbs-up, and Bucky barely holds back a snort. “Couldn’t have done better myself.” He tilts his head, a hint of uncertainty breaking through him. “Still wanna fuck me, or did I piss you off now?”

“I’m definitely pissed off,” Bucky says, glaring at him. “But I’m gonna fuck you anyway.” He lowers his voice and takes a step closer, watching with satisfaction as Barton freezes in place. “So get over here. _Now_.”

* * *

Holy shit.

Holy fucking _shit_.

Clint’s got a long and varied list of sexual misadventures to pull from, but he’s pretty sure that this is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him in his entire _life_. Barnes’s flip from uncertainty to ‘you’ll do what I fucking tell you to’ had sent him from zero to one-hundred in about two seconds flat, and the sounds he made while Clint was fingering him _—_ Christ, he’d almost come on the spot just from that alone. 

And now, with the way Barnes is glaring at him, and the tightly controlled anger just pouring off him in waves...it’s hitting every single one of Clint’s buttons, and honestly, he’s not sure how long he’s gonna be able to hold himself together.

He tosses the lube at Barnes, biting back a moan at the way he catches it with his metal hand _—_ fuck, that’s so hot, why is that _so_ hot _—_ and obediently slides off the table before turning around and grabbing the edge of it.

“I don’t think so,” Barnes says, and shoves him forward. Clint yelps as his hips make contact with the edge, sending a flare of just-right pain through him, and he collapses forward, chest pressed to the wood. “Bend the fuck over.

“Ow,” Clint breathes into the table. “That fucking hurt.”

“You know what else hurt? Jumping off my goddamn motorcycle.”

“I said I was sorry,” Clint says, a little petulant, and just about jumps out of his skin as Barnes slaps his ass.

“Not interested in your apologies,” he snaps. “Stay there and shut up.”

Clint shivers hard, then stretches forward and snags his jacket. He fumbles in the pockets for a moment and holds up a condom.

There’s a moment of silence behind him, and then Barnes starts laughing. “What the fuck,” he says, pressing his metal hand to Clint’s back. “Seriously, Barton _—_ what _don’t_ you carry?”

“I have an interesting career,” Clint says. “Never know what’s gonna happen.”

“We have the same career,” Barnes says, still sounding amused. “You don’t see me carrying lube and condoms.”

“You should.” Clint twists a little to look at him. “Never know when you’re gonna have an opportunity to defile a table.”

Barnes snorts and opens the lube, pausing with it in midair. “I, uh...” he says, anger suddenly melting into uncertainty. “What do I...”

“Want me to do it?” Clint offers. “It’ll probably be faster. You can do it next time _—_ ”

He stops himself, staring back at Barnes, who’s mirroring his own stunned expression.

Finally, Barnes clears his throat. “Is there...is there gonna be a next time?”

Clint hesitates, then says, “Do you want there to be?”

There’s a long silence. Clint lets himself imagine it, what that would be like. Doing this in a real bed, taking his time with Barnes, letting him figure out what he likes. Waking up next to him the next morning, having slow sex in the early rays of sunlight, making breakfast in his tiny little kitchen _—_

_No_ , he tells himself. _You don’t do that. This...this is just for fun._

“Doesn’t matter,” he says eventually. “We can’t _—_ it wouldn’t work.”

“No,” Barnes agrees softly. “It wouldn’t.” He swallows and looks at the lube. “So...what am I supposed to do?”

“Gotta open me up a little,” Clint says, trying to force his mind back on track. “With your fingers. Do you want me to _—_ ”

“You stay right the fuck there,” Barnes orders him. “I can do it.” He sounds unsure, but there’s a determined set to his face, and Clint decides to let him try.

“Put some on your fingers,” he says, “and just do what I did to you. Go slow.” He doesn’t really _want_ slow, but he’ll deal. “I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

Barnes nods. He slicks up his fingers, then reaches forward. His touch is hesitant, but after a moment, he gets into it, rubbing his finger around Clint’s hole before slipping one in. “Oh,” he says quietly. “That’s...”

“Gonna feel real good on your dick?” Clint asks, grinning back at him, and just like that, the vulnerable moment between them vanishes. He shoves down his relief at the thought and raises his eyebrows at Barnes.

“Brat,” Barnes mutters, sliding his finger out a little. “This okay?”

“It’s fine,” Clint assures him. “You can do more, if you want. I’m used to it.”

Barnes huffs out a laugh. “Defile a lot of tables, do you?” he asks, adding a second finger.

“As many as I can get away with,” Clint says, eyes closing at the sensation. “I like to have a good _—_ _fuck!_ ”

“Sorry,” Barnes says, not sounding sorry at all as he continues to toy with the piercing. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s cool,” Clint gasps. “Interrupt all you want, holy shit, please do that again.”

“This?” He presses down on it and Clint’s brain just fucking blue screens, thoughts immediately derailed for a scrolling banner of absolute gibberish.

“Yes, that,” he forces out, and Barnes chuckles behind him, still steadily moving his hand.

“Okay. Just checking.” He does it again, and Clint rocks back into his hand, fucking himself on Barnes’s fingers. Barnes lets him do it, moving his fingers in time with Clint’s motions. “You look really good doing that,” he says, his own voice a little tight. “I like watching it.”

“Mmhmm,” Clint agrees, hands clenching into fists. There’s a solid chance he’s going to come from this alone, and he should probably tell Barnes to stop, but _fuck_ it feels so good _—_

Barnes stops, which means he’s either a mindreader or Clint just looks that fucking desperate, who knows. He rubs a soothing circle over Clint’s spine and reaches for the condom. “Is that enough?”

“Yeah,” Clint says between breaths. “I’m good, I’m good, just fuck me.”

“Okay,” Barnes says, and he rolls the condom on himself. There’s the slick sound of lube, and then his cock _finally_ nudges against Clint. “You want it slow, or _—_ ”

“Barnes, I swear to God if you don’t pound me into this table right the fuck now, I will _actually_ murder you.” Clint twists to look at him, glaring as much as he can. “I don’t want it fucking slow, I want you to _—_ ”

He cuts off as Barnes sinks into him with a low moan. “I was trying to be considerate,” he says after a moment, voice tightly controlled. “But fine.” He pulls out almost completely, then slams his hips forward, hard enough to rock the whole table. “Remember that you fucking asked for this.”

“Big talker,” Clint shoots back. “You gonna run your mouth off the whole time or are you _—_ "

Barnes snarls something that Clint doesn’t catch. He grabs Clint’s wrists, twists them behind his back, and presses them down with his metal hand. “Don’t you dare move ‘em,” he hisses, and Clint obediently grips them. “Good boy.”

Clint sucks in a breath, the words zipping through him like a direct current of pleasure, and he lets out a little moan. Barnes chuckles behind him and squeezes his wrists. “Fucking called it,” he mutters, and slams himself forward, rocking the table again.

“Oh god,” Clint manages, and that’s the last coherent thing he says for a while. Barnes fucks him so hard it’s almost mean, shoving Clint into the table with every thrust. He’s gonna have bruises on his hips tomorrow, he can already feel them forming, distant twin spots of pain that intertwine with the sheer pleasure of Barnes’s cock. It’s so fucking amazing, it’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his life.

And then Barnes’s hand threads into his hair again, and he pulls hard, dragging Clint upwards. It fucking _hurts_ but it’s so good at the same time, intensifying everything to a sharper clarity. “ _Ah_ ,” he manages, blinking tears out of his eyes. “ _Fuck_ _—_ ”

“Yeah, you wanted this,” Barnes says with a dark laugh, breathless as he fucks Clint with an unrelenting mercy. “Look at you, fucking crying for it.”

“Please,” Clint gasps, and he has no idea what he means by that, no clue what to follow it up with. “Please, please _—_ ”

“Please what?”

Oh fuck, he doesn’t know. He can’t think, there’s no words left in him anymore.

“You gonna come?” Barnes asks, wrapping his metal arm around Clint, holding him up without missing a beat. “Huh? That what you’re begging for?”

“Yes,” Clint sobs, fingernails digging into his wrists. “Yes, yes, _please_ _—_ ”

“Not yet,” Barnes orders, and Clint sobs louder, tears dripping down his face.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs. He’s not entirely sure he can stop himself. It’s too much, the way Barnes is holding him up, and how he’s nailing Clint’s prostate on every thrust and it’s too much, it’s too much _—_

“No it’s not,” Barnes snarls in his ear, and Clint suddenly realizes that he’s babbling all of this to him, words pouring out in a stream. “You can take this.”

“Can’t,” Clint chokes out.

“Yeah you can,” Barnes growls, his hand sliding up to Clint’s throat. He doesn’t grab, just lets it rest there. A warning. “You know why?” Clint lets out a broken whimper and shakes his head. “Because I fucking told you to, that’s why. Be a good boy for me.”

Clint sobs again, digging his fingernails in hard enough to draw blood, and nods frantically. Good. He can be good. He can wait. It’s gonna fucking kill him, but he can do it, he _can_ _—_

Barnes lets out a low groan. “That’s it,” he says, and the quiet praise just _melts_ Clint, pulling an obscene little moan out of him. Barnes shudders at the sound, murmuring a string of nonsense in his ear as his thrusts get a little more erratic. “Fuck _—_ _fuck!_ ”

He shoves himself forward one last time, other hand bracing on the table to hold them both up as he comes. He bites at Clint’s shoulder but the sharp pain of it barely registers amid the storm of everything else, and all it does is make Clint shudder in his grasp and whine. “Please,” he begs again, pushing back against him. “Please, Barnes, please _—_ ”

“That’s it,” Barnes says, his voice hoarse. “That’s it. Say my fucking name. Beg me for it.”

“Oh fuck,” Clint sobs. “Oh fuck, Barnes, please let me come, oh god, _please_ _—_ ”

Barnes’s other hand slides between them. “Fucking do it, then,” he growls, and presses down _hard_ on the piercing.

Clint’s vision whites out, knees buckling as he collapses in Barnes’s grasp, unable to keep himself standing. He’s shouting, he knows he’s shouting, but he can’t do anything about it, can’t even fucking breathe as his orgasm slams into him, burning through him with a blinding intensity that leaves _nothing_ in its wake.

“Oh god,” he gasps, finally managing to drag in a breath. “Oh god oh god oh _god_ _—_ ”

“I got you,” Barnes murmurs in his ear, tightening his grip. “I got you, it’s okay, just let go.” He presses a soft kiss to Clint’s neck. “That was amazing, Clint, you did so fucking good, holy _shit_ _—_ ”

Clint makes some kind of strangled noise and goes even more limp in his grasp, if that’s fucking possible, and Barnes gently lowers him to the table, still murmuring a string of praise. He works Clint’s arms apart and carefully arranges them, rubbing a comforting hand over the joints as Clint mumbles in protest. “Easy,” he says, “You can let go, it’s okay, you did _so_ good.”

Clint relaxes into the touch, letting the soft words carry him. He floats for a little bit, vaguely aware of Barnes pulling out, stepping away for a moment before coming back, pressing a firm hand on the base of Clint’s spine, fingers gently massaging the muscles there.

It’s a long time before he finally moves, forcing his jellied arms to slide into a position where he can push himself up. “Wow,” he says, his voice rough. “Um. _Wow_.”

“Are you okay?” Barnes asks.

“I think you killed me,” Clint admits, standing up. He keeps bracing himself on the table, highly aware that his legs could give out any second. “I _—_ fuck, are you _sure_ you’ve never done that before?”

“Not with a guy,” Barnes says with a shrug. “Was it okay?”

Clint snorts. “Okay?” he asks. “Christ, Barnes, I think the whole fucking party heard me screaming. That was _amazing_.”

Barnes looks pleased with himself. “Good,” he says. “Up to your table-defiling standards, then.”

“Definitely in the top five,” Clint agrees.

There’s a beat of silence between them, and then Barnes shifts his weight. “We should probably get out of here,” he says, and Clint suddenly remembers the dead guy outside the door. “Just in case someone at the party did hear you.” He scoops Clint’s clothes up and puts them on the table. “Get dressed.”

“We spilled the wine,” Clint says, reaching for his pants with still-trembling fingers.

“It was shit anyway.” Barnes grins at him, and Clint finds himself grinning back. Barnes has a nice smile, easy and brilliant, one that Clint could definitely spend some time getting lost in.

_Dangerous,_ a little part of him says. _You’re supposed to kill each other._

Barnes looks away first, grabbing at his shirt. Clint does the same, and they dress in silence, suddenly awkward. The reality of their situation hangs between them with a thick tension. Clint doesn’t know how to address it. Doesn’t even know where to start, really. He knows he doesn’t want to kill Barnes anymore, or at least not right now. He’s too strung out on happy feelings to really muster up the energy, plus he feels like it would be kind of rude, considering what just happened and all.

He fumbles with his bow tie, scowling at the fabric. “Stupid fucking _—_ ”

“You’re doing it wrong,” Barnes says, finishing up his own.

“No shit,” Clint says. “I had Kate do it the first time, I don’t _—_ ” He growls in frustration and yanks at the knot he’s managed to tie into it. “I hate these _—_ ”

“Come here,” Barnes sighs. He knocks Clint’s hands aside and pulls it loose, then starts retying it with ease. “It’s not that hard.”

Clint can think of a number of flippant responses to that, but they all fade away as he watches Barnes work on his tie. It’s funny, really _—_ Barnes just fucked him into utter oblivion, but somehow, _this_ feels like the more intimate moment between them.

Barnes must notice it too, because he pauses, and they just look at each other. _He could kill you right now,_ Clint thinks, but he makes no move against it. Just keeps his hands by his sides and his eyes on Barnes.

The moment stretches between them, and then without a word, Barnes finishes it and drops his hands. “There,” he says, stepping back. “Okay. Where’s that other door go to?”

“I don’t know,” Clint says, shaking himself back into reality. “It was a tunnel, I didn’t see the end of it.”

“We should check it out,” Barnes says. “If it’s a back door _—_ ”

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint grabs his jacket and shrugs it back on, straightening it with a dramatic tug. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”

* * *

Bucky follows him down the tunnel, unable to take his eyes off of the absolute _mess_ that is Barton’s hair. It’s like a haystack, all wild and crazy, and all Bucky can think about is how it felt to get his hands in it, how Barton just let him pull on it, followed the pressure of his hand and asked for more.

The tunnel ends with a sleek-looking staircase that spirals upwards. Bucky glances up at it, a little bit unsure. “That’s...interesting.”

“I kinda like it,” Barton says. “Pierce might have been an asshole, but at least he had some style.” He starts up the steps.

“Be careful,” Bucky says, not realizing the absurdity of the statement until it comes out of his mouth. He’s supposed to _kill_ Barton. What the hell is he doing, telling him to be careful?

Barton pauses on the second step, glancing back at him. “Yeah,” he says, his mouth quirking up in a small smile. “Careful. Sure.”

Bucky starts to explain, but he’s not really sure what he would say anyway. So he just shrugs helplessly and gestures up the stairs. Barton looks at him a second longer, then turns and keeps climbing up.

The stairs end in another door. It’s not locked, and Barton carefully pushes the door open, peering around it. “Coast is clear,” he says. “I think it’s an office?”

Bucky follows him through, glancing around. It is an office. There’s a computer, and a desk, and a couple bookcases. “Probably Pierce’s office,” he says, wandering over to look out the window. It faces the driveway, which is still all lit up.

“Yeah,” Barton agrees. He sounds distracted, and Bucky looks over to see him sitting behind the desk.

“What are you doing?”

He plugs a USB key into the computer and starts typing. “Erasing his security footage, just in case. Won’t take long. Keep an eye on the doors, will you?”

Bucky stares at him. He should go, he knows. He should leave and let Barton just fend for himself. Whatever happened between them downstairs _—_ it’s over, now. It’s over and done and Bucky should just _go_ before something else changes.

But he doesn’t. He watches the door, alternating between listening for any signs of trouble and keeping an eye on Barton, who he’s pretty sure is humming the _Mission Impossible_ theme song while tapping away at the keys. Bucky’s about to ask him when he straightens up and pulls the USB key out. “Okay,” he says. “We’re clear. I erased everything from tonight, and the cameras will be down for the next ten minutes. Let’s scram.”

“How did you do that?” Bucky asks.

“I have a very smart friend,” Barton says. “Super good with computers. He wrote me a fancy program. I have no idea how it works, so don’t ask.” He nods at the door. “Come on.”

They step out into the hallway. They’re somewhere on the second floor, Bucky’s pretty sure, although from out here he can hear the faint sounds of the party. Doesn’t sound like there’s any commotion yet.

“This way,” Barton says confidently, and goes left.

Bucky reaches out and grabs his arm. “This way,” he says, pointing right. “That way’s just more bedrooms.”

“How do you know?”

“I memorized the house layout.”

“So did I,” Barton says, “and I’m pretty sure _—_ ” He stops, looking down at his hands. He splays them in the air, then spins around, muttering something. “Aw, fuck, you’re right,” he says, and shoulders past Bucky.

Bucky chases after him. “What the hell was that?”

“I had it reversed in my head,” he says. “The layout. Had to reorient left and right.” He ducks his head a little, looking distantly embarrassed. “Don’t give me that look, I would’ve figured it out.”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says, nudging him in the ribs. “Or you’d still be wandering the mansion when they find his body, and have to make a ridiculous escape out a window or something.”

“Hey,” Barton says, indignant. “I’ll have you know that my window escapes look badass, not ridiculous. And it’s irrelevant because I would’ve gotten out anyway. So shut up.”

Bucky laughs, then stops himself, because what the fuck is he doing? They’re not friends, they’re not partners. He needs to get out of here and get away from Barton, before his head gets any more screwed up.

Barton glances at him. He looks like he wants to say something, but after a moment, he just shakes his head and moves on. They go down the stairs, slipping seamlessly into the milling crowd. Nobody even glances at them, preoccupied as they are by shaking hands and endless amounts of sucking up.

Barton looks across the room, then grins at something. Bucky follows his gaze to a tall, broad-shouldered blond man, who’s wrapped around an equally tall skinny guy with gelled up hair. They’re making out like they don’t have a care in the world, hands drifting just a little too low to be appropriate for a fancy black-tie party.

Although, the guy with gelled-up hair is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, so Bucky’s pretty sure the fanciness of the party is probably lost on them anyway.

“Attaboy,” Barton says, and does a little two fingered salute in their direction. “I _knew_ that would work.”

“You know them?”

“I fucked the blond one,” Barton says. “Couple nights ago.”

Bucky feels a sudden flash of jealousy _—_ which, seriously, _what the fuck_ _—_ and covers it with an offhand shrug. “Table defiling, huh?”

“That was in my bed, actually,” Barton says. “Anyway, glad to see they’re getting on.” He steps around Bucky. “Aaaand we’re leaving. Let’s go.”

Bucky trails him out and down the steps, all the way down to the start of the driveway. They stop there and look at each other, the tension suddenly back.

“I took a taxi here,” Bucky says, raising his hand for one. There’s a few of them hanging around, probably on Pierce’s orders.

“Same.” Barton rubs a hand through his hair, then says, “We probably shouldn’t share.”

“Probably not,” Bucky says.

Barton bites his lip. “Well. That was...fun.”

“It was something,” Bucky agrees, flicking his eyes over Barton’s wrinkled suit, and his messy hair. He looks at Barton’s bowtie, remembers what it was like to tie it. That moment where he had his fingers by Barton’s throat, and Barton had just...let him do it. Didn’t even make a move to defend himself.

Bucky should have killed him then. Should’ve strangled him right there.

But he didn’t. Just like he’s not doing anything now. And he has absolutely no idea why.

“Well,” Barton says. “Uh. Good luck with the whole murder thing.” He chuckles. “Try to come up with something better than locking me in a sauna.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, a little offended. “Don’t tell me how to do my job. I almost got you with that piano.”

Barton stares at him as the taxi pulls up. “Wait _—_ _—_ that was _you?_ ”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He opens the door. “You handled it nicely, though. That step sideways?” He flashes a double thumbs up. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

Barton’s mouth is hanging open. “What?” he finally manages.

Bucky grins at him. “See ya around, Barton,” he says, and slides into the taxi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of course I think he’s hot. He is hot. That’s just...objective science.” Clint rubs his eyes, fighting off the impending exhaustion. “But it doesn’t matter how hot he is, because he’s going to try and kill me, which means I have to kill him first. I don’t have a choice.”
> 
> He tells himself that all the way back to his apartment, and while he’s getting undressed, and while he’s getting into bed, and while he’s laying there, staring at the ceiling. He tells himself that all goddamn night long.
> 
> By the time morning rolls around, he still doesn’t want to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE IS [ART FOR THIS PLEASE GO LOOK AT IT AND GIVE IT THE LOVE IT DESERVES](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869604/chapters/62858107?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_334265833)
> 
> ETA: Now there is [MORE ART AND IT IS STILL AMAZING!](https://harishe-art.tumblr.com/post/626658894850244609/i-dont-know-why-im-like-this-but-enjoy-more-art) Please go like/reblog if you can, both pieces are by Harishe (harishe-art on tumblr) and they're lovely!

Clint spends _way_ too long staring after Barnes trying to process that little tidbit of information, because seriously, what the fuck? Who tries to drop a piano on someone’s head?

“You wanna follow him?” asks one of the other taxi drivers. He’s leaning against his car, casually eating an apple.

“What? No.” Clint shakes his head. “Why would you ask that?”

The driver shrugs. “You look like you want to.”

Clint watches Barnes’s taxi disappear down the street. “No,” he finally says. “I don’t want to follow him.” He gestures towards the car. “I will take a ride though, if you’re offering.”

“Happy to,” the driver says, and opens the door.

Clint has the driver drop him off about ten minutes from his place and walks the rest of the way. Partially because he’s paranoid—no point in giving out an address if he doesn’t need to—and partially because he wants to clear his head a little.

He still has to kill Barnes. That much is clear. It’s not even about the money at this point. He has to take out Barnes or else Barnes is going to get him first, and Clint doesn’t much feel like spending the rest of his life—however long it is—looking over his shoulder.

But he still doesn’t want to. And that’s the wild part, really. He can’t blame it on endorphins, or anything else that he was using as an excuse earlier. This one’s all on him.

It’s stupid. It was _one_ fuck—one mind blowing, absolutely fantastic fuck—but that’s all it was. Nothing more, nothing less.

_You think he’s hot, though._

“Of course I think he’s hot. He is hot. That’s just...objective science.” Clint rubs his eyes, fighting off the impending exhaustion. “But it doesn’t matter how hot he is, because he’s going to try and kill me, which means I have to kill him first. I don’t have a choice.”

He tells himself that all the way back to his apartment, and while he’s getting undressed, and while he’s getting into bed, and while he’s laying there, staring at the ceiling. He tells himself that all goddamn night long.

By the time morning rolls around, he still doesn’t want to do it.

Kate comes by early to drop off Lucky, who barrels into Clint with the same amount of wild enthusiasm as always. Clint manages to thank Kate in between slobbery kisses, and promises to bring her coffee at the range later. Then he takes Lucky on a walk, alternating between looking over his shoulder and trying to decide what to do next.

“I don’t know, buddy,” he says to Lucky, watching him snuffle around some flowers. “I’m a little lost on this one.”

Lucky barks and licks his hand, nudging into it, looking for ear scratches. It’s not a helpful answer, but it makes Clint smile anyway, so that’s something.

He takes Lucky back home, then spends the next two hours filling his walls full of arrows. By the time he runs out, he’s tired and sweaty, but he knows what he needs to do.

He picks The Phone up from the kitchen counter and dials a number. He’s never had to use it before, but he’s had it memorized for years. As soon as he hits the last digit, he puts the phone on speaker and drops it back on the counter.

It rings twice, and then the robotic voice answers. “Barton. Is there a problem?”

“I’m cancelling a contract.”

There’s a pause, and then, “What name?”

“Bucky Barnes.”

Another pause. “Reason?”

_He fucked me over a table last night and I think I might be having some feelings about it._ “I don’t need a reason. I’m cancelling. Take my name off it.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

Clint stares at The Phone. “I’m sorry, _what?_ ”

“This contract is not reversible.”

“That wasn’t in the fine print.”

“This contract is not reversible.”

“You can’t tell me that.”

“This contract is not—”

“Stop saying that!” Clint yells, slamming his hand on the counter. “Why? Why isn’t it reversible?”

“That reason is classified.”

Clint clamps down on a string of curses, and rubs his eyebrows, trying to offset the impending headache. “Classified. Of fucking course it is”

“Will that be all?”

Clint glares at The Phone. “Can you tell me who classified it?”

“No.”

“Come on,” Clint says. “I’ve been working for you guys for almost my whole life. Can you just...give me something? Anything?”

There’s a click, and the line goes dead.

“Fucking hell,” Clint mutters, and buries his face in his hands. “Please don’t make me do this.”

Lucky comes over and nudges at his knees. Clint sinks down to the floor and pulls him into a hug, pressing his face into the soft fur.

“I don’t wanna kill him,” he says quietly. “God help me, I just don’t want to.”

There’s a vibrating sound above him, and Clint reaches up on instinct, blindly patting around until he can grab The Phone. “I hate you,” he says to it, and it unlocks. Clint expects to see the usual things—a name, a picture, a location, and an amount.

Except that’s not what it is at all. It’s an email, with the subject line reading INFORMATION CLASSIFIED BY:. Clint opens it warily, half expecting The Phone to explode in his hand or something. He’s _never_ gotten an email on here, not once in however many years he’s been doing this. This is way outside the norm.

The Phone does not explode. The email is blank except for a name. Two names, to be exact. Clint reads them, then reads them again. And then again for good measure, because holy shit. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He scrambles for his other phone and dials Kate. “Hey,” he says when she answers. “I need you to take Lucky again.”

“How long?” she sighs.

“Not sure. I’ll pay double.”

“Where are you going?”

Clint stares at The Phone, and those two names, and feels an anger unfurl low in his gut. He puts up with a lot of shit for this job—protocols, open contracts, and a termination policy that’s not exactly pleasant—but this...this is too fucking far.

“No idea,” he says. “But there’s someone that I need to talk to. I have to find him.”

He half-expects her to argue again, but there must be something in his voice that says otherwise, because all she says is, “Bring him to the range. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Clint says. “I’m on my way.”

* * *

Bucky hadn’t really _meant_ to go to Italy, but it was the first suggestion that popped up when he’d started searching for flights, and he’d just kind of rolled with it. He just wanted to get out of New York City as fast as possible, and Italy would put him on the other side of the world from Barton, and so he’d bought a ticket and jumped on the next flight out.

He thought about cancelling the contract on Barton the entire way. He even went so far as to dial the number, but then he hung up before it could ring.

“You just need some space,” he’d told himself. “Take a few weeks off, get your head on straight, and you’ll be fine. Then you can go kill him.”

The contract’s not time sensitive. He can take all the breaks he needs. So now he’s here, trying to enjoy the beaches of Stromboli, and very definitely not thinking about what Barton would look like stretched out on them, tan skin a stark contrast to the black sand.

It would probably look really good. If he was into that.

Which he’s not.

Not at all.

Bucky sighs and goes back into his little villa. He’s so fucking tired of this. So tired of thinking about it. Of thinking about him. He needs to get it out of his head.

“It was _one_ time,” he tells himself, like he’s done a thousand times since getting here. “It was one time, it was great, and now you need to move on.”

He’d tried, to be fair. His first night here he’d picked up a girl at some local bar. Some dark-haired girl with a pretty smile and an easy confidence he could see from across the room. He’d zeroed in on her instantly, and they’d danced for a long time before she brought him back to her place.

He’d made it all of ten minutes with her. There’d been the usual small talk, and then she’d started kissing him, all soft and hesitant, and it had just felt...wrong. He couldn’t get into it and she’d picked up on it after a moment. Pulled back and asked him if something was the matter, brown eyes wide with concern.

Bucky didn’t know how to tell her that he didn’t _want_ soft and hesitant. He wanted danger, and adrenaline, and his knife at a throat while one was pressed to his stomach. He wanted blue eyes, not brown, and blond hair, not black, and he didn’t know how to fucking deal with any of that. So he’d just run out instead, stammering over his words like a complete moron before grabbing his jacket and leaving.

He hasn’t bothered to try again. He just knows, deep in his bones, that it’s gonna end the same way.

Bucky showers the sand off himself, then pulls on some pants and crawls into bed. He leaves the window open—stupid, probably, but he likes hearing the ocean, and if someone’s going to come kill him here, then at least he’ll die somewhere nice.

It takes almost two hours for him to fall asleep. There’s a nagging sense in the back of his mind that someone’s watching him, and despite three perimeter checks and putting all his weapons within easy reach, it doesn’t go away. _Could be Barton,_ he thinks, and can’t stop the thin little thread of hope in the back of his mind. Doesn’t even want to try.

The nagging sense remains even as he drifts off, and it feels like he’s barely been asleep for a minute when he’s sitting up again, gun in one hand and knife in the other, checking the corners of the room. The moonlight is making shadows on the walls, and it’s playing tricks on his mind, with the way they’re shaped and moving and—

“Hey,” says a voice, and Bucky hurls the knife at it. There’s a little shriek of alarm and a _thud_ as it slams into the wall. Then the voice says, “What the _fuck_ , man? That’s just uncool.”

“Barton?” Bucky asks, incredulous.

A shadow peels away from the wall and turns into Barton, blond hair catching in the moonlight. It’s beautiful. Bucky almost wants to touch it. Or he would, if he was into that.

Which he’s _not_ , goddamnit. It’s just nice hair. He’s just looking at it. That’s all.

Barton steps into the light a little more and holds both hands up. One’s got Bucky’s knife in it. “Hey,” he says, an easy smile spreading over his face. “How ya doing?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Barton shrugs. “Checking out the tiger sharks?” Bucky laughs without meaning to, and the smile gets a little wider. “I hear they’re vicious arm-eaters.”

“Something like that,” Bucky agrees. “But seriously. What are you doing here?”

The smile disappears. “I’m just here to talk,” Barton says. “And it’s really important, so please don’t kill me until I’ve said my thing.”

Bucky stares at him. “How did you find me?”

“I tracked you.”

“How?”

“I have resources.” He grins. “Also I dropped a GPS in your suit pocket at the party.”’

Bucky twists to look at his suitcase, then sighs. “I guess that’s on me for not checking.”

“Yeah,” Barton agrees. “Anyway. I need to talk to you.” He looks at the knife in his hand, then tosses it on the bed. “Here. I’m not armed.” He tugs his shirt up, revealing a strip of skin that Bucky very definitely is not thinking about touching, and spins in a circle. “No guns. No knives. No fancy poison vials.”

“I’m listening,” Bucky says. “You don’t have to convince me.”

Barton looks startled for a second, then a bright smile blooms over his face. “Great. Okay.” He hops over the footboard of the bed with one quick motion and lands on the covers.

“What the fuck,” Bucky says. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting down. Not my fault you don’t have any chairs in this place.” He holds his hands up in a ‘whatcha-gonna-do-about-it’ kind of gesture, and Bucky feels like he should be annoyed by this, but all he wants to do is grab Barton by his shirt and kiss him again.

Or he would. If he was into—

_Oh for Christ’s sake, Barnes. You fucked the guy over a table and now you can’t stop thinking about him. You’re into it. Just accept it._

Barton shifts and pulls something from his pocket. A Phone. “So,” he says, tapping it against his hand. “After our, uh...table defiling experience, I realized something.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

Bucky blinks. “You what?”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Barton repeats. “I know. It’s unprofessional of me. But I don’t.”

“Why?”

The word is barely a whisper, and Barton takes so long to answer that Bucky thinks he didn’t hear. But then he lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug and says, “I don’t really know.” His eyes meet Bucky’s, and the depth of emotion in them is almost frightening. “I tried to make a whole bunch of excuses for it, but that’s the truth. I don’t want to kill you, and I don’t know _why_ I don’t want to.”

“I don’t want to kill you either,” Bucky admits, and it feels good to say out loud. “I...I don’t know why either. I was actually going to cancel the contract.”

Barton freezes, then says, “Did you?”

Bucky’s face heats up. “No. I was. Um.” He rubs his forehead. “I was going to. Dialed the number and everything. And then I hung up. Figured I’d take a few weeks to get my head on straight, then come back and kill you later.”

“Ah.” Barton holds up The Phone. “See, I _did_ try to cancel it.”

Bucky stares at him. “You...you did?”

“I did. And I learned something very interesting.” He leans forward. “It’s not reversible.”

“What?” Bucky shakes his head, still a little stuck on the fact that Barton tried to cancel the contract. _Why would he do that?_ “That’s...odd. That wasn’t in the fine print, was it? It wasn’t on yours.”

“No, it wasn’t. So I asked, and they said it was classified.”

“Figures.”

Barton swipes a few times on his Phone, then holds it out to Bucky. “When I asked who classified it, they hung up. A few seconds later, I got this email.”

Bucky reaches for it gingerly. It’s oddly intimate again, this little action. Partly because of the electricity that sparks between where their fingers touch, and partly because there are strict protocols about The Phone, and they definitely don’t involve just _handing_ it to other people. It’s one of the most important rules. They’d drilled that into him from day one.

Barton is watching him intently as he takes it, an unreadable expression on his face. “Look at the names,” is all he says, and Bucky glances down.

He reads the names, and then again, and then a third time because he’s not actually sure he’s processing them correctly. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he finally asks.

“Nope,” Barton says. “And if they’re the ones who classified the information, then they’re—”

“Probably the same ones who ordered the hit,” Bucky finishes.

“Exactly.” Barton takes The Phone back, and Bucky’s stomach does a little flip as their hands touch again.

He quickly pulls away. “Do you think they ordered yours too?”

“Well, here’s the other thing.” Barton grimaces and rubs a hand through his hair, turning it into even more of a mess. “I’ve been chasing down some information the last few days. Calling in favors and blackmailing and paying people off. Guess what I learned?”

“What?”

Barton looks furious. “The Shareholders are having an argument. A big one. All four of them. Rumor has it they’re splitting The Company up, and they all want pieces, and they all want bigger pieces than the other three.”

“Oh shit,” Bucky says, suddenly understanding. “So you think—”

“So I think they’re using us,” Barton says. “I think these two put out a hit on you, and the other two put out a hit on me, and I think they’re all playing a fucking petty little game of ‘if I can’t have it, then you can’t have it either.’”

“Shit,” Bucky says again.

“Yep.” There’s a dark edge to his voice now, and his free hand is clenched into a fist. He looks deadly, like he did in the basement, and Bucky’s heart beats a little faster at the sight. “And I don’t know about you, but I don’t like being used in petty games.”

“No,” Bucky says. “I don’t much care for it either.”

“So I wanted to come find you,” Barton says. “For two reasons.” He holds up The Phone. “I’m not happy about this. I’ve been with them a long time. I do good work. I follow their fucking rules. But if they’re going to yank my chain like this, then that’s it. I’m out.” He drops the Phone on the bed and locks eyes with Bucky. “I’m gonna go hunt them down, and personally ask them why they’re being such assholes. And...” He trails off for a moment, then in a rush adds, “I was kind of hoping you’d come with me.”

Bucky stares at him for a moment. “You want me to come with you?”

“Yeah.” Barton bites his lip, then says, “Sauna incidents aside, I think you’re good at what you do. I was reading your file on the plane over here—your actual file, not the shit they gave me for the hit.” He grins. “You’re damn good, actually. I was very impressed. You’re almost as good as me.”

Bucky resolves to never mention the dog thing to him. “ _Almost_ as good?”

Barton raises an eyebrow, then gestures around. “I found you here, didn’t I?”

“Because you dropped a GPS on me. That’s not talent. That’s just tracking a signal.”

“Says the guy who didn’t check his pockets.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky repeats, dropping his tone and turning it into an order. Barton blinks, then snaps his mouth shut and sits back. Bucky smirks. “That’s better.”

An unreadable expression crosses Barton’s face, so quickly that Bucky’s not even sure it really happened. “Anyway,” he says after a beat, clearing his throat. “I’d like you to come with me. I could use your help. We worked well together.” His face flushes a bit. “You know. What little work we actually did.”

Bucky thinks about it for a moment. Imagines what it would be like, working alongside Barton. He already knows Barton is good. He’d proven that in the cellar, during their fight, and then when they were leaving. And he _had_ almost gotten the drop on Bucky during their week of assassination attempts. Several times, actually. So there’s no questioning the talent.

And they did work well together. Much better than Bucky had ever expected, considering how much he normally hates working with partners. It had just been so...easy, between them. So simple.

He looks at Barton, and the moonlight reflecting off his hair, and his hopeful expression, and makes a choice.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure. I’ll go with you.”

Barton’s face lights up like the sun. “Awesome,” he says. “This is gonna be great.”

“What’s the other reason?” Bucky asks, before he can lose his nerve. “You said there were two reasons. What’s the other?”

Barton takes a deep breath. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, speaking quickly. Like he’s afraid the words are going to disappear before he can say them. “I thought it was just the sex at first—which was great, by the way, don’t get me wrong—but those feelings are long gone. It’s been days, and I still can’t get you out of my head.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, because what else is he supposed to say when his own thoughts are being mirrored back at him?

Barton rubs a hand through his hair. It doesn’t do anything except make it more unruly, and _fuck_ , Bucky wants to touch it. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s stupid, I know. But, uh...it’s the truth.” His mouth quirks up in a little smile. “I guess you could say I’m kinda into you. And I was just wondering if maybe you felt the same—”

He cuts off as Bucky grabs his shirt and pulls him forward into a kiss, all teeth and tongues and desperation. And it’s right, somehow, in a way that kissing the girl from the bar hadn’t been right at all. It’s everything he’s been looking for, everything he’d tried to tell himself he didn’t want.

It’s perfect.

The force of his pull knocks them both sideways, and he turns it into a roll, pinning Barton underneath him and pressing his wrists into the mattress by his head. As soon as he does, Barton just _melts_ into it, a soft noise escaping him. “Bucky,” he whispers into the kiss, and Bucky shivers a little bit at the word.

“Yeah,” he says, resting his forehead against Barton’s. “Okay. I guess I’m kinda into you too.”

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Barton says, and kisses him again. “Because otherwise this would’ve been a real awkward murder trip.”

There’s a beat of silence and then they’re both laughing, hard enough that Bucky partially collapses on top of him, unable to hold himself up. Barton lets out a muffled grunt and pulls against his grip. “Get _off_ ,” he says, not really sounding like he wants that at all. “Fuck, you’re heavy.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, and props himself up a little. He lets go of one wrist and _finally_ slides his hand into Barton’s hair, gently tugging at it. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you either, you know. I tried. I tried so goddamn hard and I just _couldn’t_.”

“Yeah,” Barton says, flashing a flippant grin. “I’m good at that.”

Bucky laughs again. “You’re such a brat,” he says, and the grin gets wider. Barton wriggles a little underneath him, then pulls his legs free and wraps them around Bucky like he’s a fucking koala bear or something.

“Since you’ve officially decided you’re into me,” he says, “I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind _actually_ getting into me.” He bucks his hips up, like the innuendo wasn’t clear enough already. “You’ve got this big comfy bed, after all. Would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

“I thought we had a murder field trip to get to,” Bucky says. “Do we have time to be defiling beds right now?”

“We’ll _make_ time,” Barton says. “I’ve still got bruises from that damn table. I wanna do it somewhere nice this time.”

“I suppose I could be enticed into that,” Bucky says, pretending to consider. He’s already hard, and he knows Barton can tell, pressed against each other as they are.

“So tell me how to entice you.” Barton bucks his hips up again, and Bucky gasps a little at the contact. “Please?”

“That what you want?” Bucky asks, already knowing the answer. “For me to tell you what to do?”

“You know I do,” Barton says, somehow managing to make it sound cocky and earnest at the same time. “Yes, I want that. I want that so bad.”

“Okay.” Bucky leans down and kisses him, soft and easy. “I can do that.”

Barton beams up at him, like an actual ray of sunshine, and it’s absolutely the best thing that Bucky’s ever seen in his life. He can’t remember what he was so afraid of, or why he was trying so hard to run away from this. He’s just _happy_ , laying here with Barton underneath him, looking up at him with trusting blue eyes.

“Whatcha thinking about?” Barton asks, tilting his head a little.

“Nothing,” Bucky says. “I’m just happy you’re here. With me.”

“I am too,” Barton says. He raises his hand to Bucky’s face, brushing back his hair before tugging him down into another kiss. “I’m _so_ fucking happy, you have no idea.”

They don’t talk much after that, trading words for more kisses instead, and taking turns pulling each other’s clothes off. Bucky laughs when Barton produces a couple condoms and some lube out of literally _nowhere_. Barton just shrugs shamelessly and slides two fingers into himself, smirking as Bucky can’t take his eyes off the sight.

The wine cellar was undeniably hot—all frantic and desperate and intense—but this is nice too, Bucky thinks. Almost better. They can take their time about it, now. Something that Barton takes full advantage of, stretching himself open at the world’s slowest pace. Bucky’s pretty sure he’s just doing it to be a tease, but it’s such a damn good show that he can’t be bothered to say anything against it. Barton doesn’t hold anything back—not a noise, not an expression, not a word.

_Finally_ , though, he straddles Bucky and sinks onto his cock with a low groan. “Fuck,” he mutters, settling himself all the way down. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, eyes closed as he tries to keep himself under control. “You—you too.”

He sits up, sliding his hands around Barton’s back to pull him closer. Barton rolls his hips, grinning a little at the noise Bucky makes in response. “You like that?” he murmurs, doing it again.

“I love it,” Bucky says, and Barton does it one more time before draping his arms around Bucky’s neck and pulling him into a kiss.

“Good,” he says against Bucky’s mouth. “I wanna be good for you.”

“You’re perfect,” Bucky assures him, and he feels Barton’s answering smile.

God, he’s into this. He’s so into this. He’s into the way Barton shivers under his touch, and how he tips his head back when he’s moaning, and the insistent way his fingers dig into Bucky’s shoulders. He’s into the noises Barton makes, and his smile, and just _everything_ about him.

Fuck, yeah. He’s into it.

He slips a hand between them, wrapping it around Barton’s cock. “I want you to come for me,” he says quietly, feeling Barton shudder at his touch. “Just like this. Right here. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” Barton says, resting his head against Bucky’s. “Fuck, yes, anything you want. Whatever you want.”

“Good,” Bucky murmurs, and he starts moving his hand, slow and steady, watching every reaction it gets. Barton is so _responsive_ under his touch, shivering and moaning and rocking into it, gasping every time Bucky rubs his thumb over the head of his cock.

“Fuck,” he gasps, dropping his forehead down to Bucky’s shoulder. “Please don’t stop.”

“I’m not going to,” Bucky says. “I want to watch you come apart just like this, looks so fucking hot. I love hearing you.”

Barton shudders and moans into his shoulder, hands gripping at him. “I’m gonna come,” he warns, voice tight. “I’m—”

“You can,” Bucky says. “Do it, I want you to.”

Barton shudders again. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he breathes, and tenses around Bucky, tightening around his cock as he spills into Bucky’s hand.

“That’s it,” Bucky says, working him through it. He feels his own orgasm approaching, a low heat suffusing through him. He does his best to hold it off, trying to focus on Barton, and making him feel good. “That’s it, that’s _perfect_. I got you.”

Barton mumbles something and clutches at him tighter, rolling his hips again in a way that makes Bucky’s breath hitch in his chest. “You too,” he mumbles again, the words thick. “I want you to come too.”

“Trying to take care of you, honey,” Bucky says softly, biting back a moan as Barton rocks down onto him.

“You too,” Barton insists, and he does it again. It only takes a few more moments before Bucky’s tenuous grasp on his self-control shatters, and he closes his eyes as he comes, hanging onto Barton like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

“Clint,” he murmurs after, tugging on that mess of blond hair. “Come here.”

Clint follows the pressure of his hand, obediently tipping his head back to kiss Bucky. They stay like that for a long time, wrapped around each other. Clint’s clearly exhausted, but every time Bucky makes a move to ease him off and into the bed, he just clings tighter.

Finally, Bucky pats him on the back. “You gotta move,” he says, smiling as Clint shakes his head. “Come on.” He turns to the side and dumps him onto the sheets, smiling a little at the muffled protest. “You need to sleep.”

“Was comfy there,” Clint says petulantly, cracking an eye open to look at him. Bucky pats his head, then goes into the bathroom, cleaning himself up before coming back with a washcloth.

“Come here,” he says, running it over Clint’s chest. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Clint makes a grumbling noise that’s more adorable than it should be, but he lets Bucky do what he needs to without further complaint. “Thanks,” he says, looking a little more awake at the end of it. “You uh...you didn’t have to to do that.”

“I wanted to,” Bucky says with a shrug, flinging the cloth into the bathroom. It hits the tub with a wet thud. “I liked it.” He kneels on the bed, putting a hand on Clint’s arm. “Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” Clint says, rolling over to look at him. “It’s more than fine. I like it too.”

“I thought you might,” Bucky says. “Seemed like something you would like.”

“I’m that easy to read, huh?” Clint asks, a tired smile tugging at his mouth. “I’ll have to work on my air of mystery some more.”

Bucky laughs. “Let me know how that goes.” He lays down, keeping a careful distance between them. That lasts all of five seconds before Clint rolls over, flopping on top of him. Bucky grunts as a bony elbow contacts his ribs. “Ow,” he wheezes, rubbing at it.

“Sorry,” Clint says, not sounding sorry at all. “You’re warm.”

“Blankets are a thing.”

“I want you.”

Bucky’s breath catches a little at that. “Oh,” he says, his chest suddenly tight with emotion. “Um.”

“If that’s okay,” Clint adds, tucking his head into Bucky’s shoulder. “I can move if it’s not.” He hooks a leg over Bucky’s, pressing himself even closer.

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says dryly. “As you’re so clearly demonstrating.” He shifts a little bit, then wraps his left arm around Clint. “The deadly assassin likes snuggles. Who would’ve thought?”

“I have many layers,” Clint mumbles. “Air of mystery, remember?”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky says again. “Shut up and go to sleep. We have a murder field trip to start in the morning.”

“Yeah.” Clint tucks up against him. “Gonna be fun.”

“Gonna be something,” Bucky mutters, thinking about the inevitable fights headed their way. They’ll be lucky to make it out alive, honestly.

“Gonna be fun,” Clint insists, draping his arm over Bucky’s chest. “I promised you trouble and mayhem, remember? I fully intend to deliver.” He lifts his head up enough for Bucky to catch his knowing smile. “You know. If you’re into that kind of thing.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky says, although he’s pretty sure Clint can feel him trying not to laugh. “Yes, I’m into it. Looking forward to it.”

“Good,” Clint says, settling back onto him. “Glad to hear that.”

Bucky gently scratches through his hair. “Go to sleep, Clint.”

“Sleeping,” Clint mutters back, and after a few minutes, his breathing evens out, turning into something deeper.

Bucky doesn’t normally share a bed with anyone, not even after sex—he gets too keyed-up with another person in the room, and it leads to him not sleeping well at all. But there’s something comforting about Clint’s weight on top of him. Bucky likes it.

_Guess that’s just another thing you’re into_ , he thinks hazily, and falls asleep to the soft sound of Clint’s breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to CFC for cheering on this idea, and another thousand thanks to YOU, dear reader, for reading it! I sincerely hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it <3
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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